Mr & Mrs Darcy
by S. Faith
Summary: Mark thinks he's as settled as he's ever going to get. Mark would be wrong. Column universe. Written before release of third book.
1. Chapter 1

**Mr & Mrs Darcy**

By S. Faith, © 2013

Words: 30,042

Rating: M / R

Summary: Mark thinks he's as settled as he's ever going to get. Mark would be wrong.

Disclaimer: Isn't mine. Oh, God, do I wish it were.

Notes: Column universe, based off of the 2005-06 columns. Written prior to The Big Plot Reveal for _Mad About the Boy_.

I've got Things Goin' Down, so I couldn't promise to get it all posted before I head out east, BUT I wanted it up before the new book comes out. So, you get it all now, lucky you! Any typos or the like are entirely on me. Try not to binge-read!

* * *

**Chapter 1.**

_First day of school, early September_

It had been a very long time since he'd given that time in his life much conscious thought at all. A cascade of occurrences led him to do so with something of a wistful smile; that cascade began with his only child, his son, aged five, returning home from his first day at school.

"Dad," said the boy earnestly before he'd even had a chance to ask how the day had gone, "I made a friend. He's really nice."

"Is that so, Ben?" He crouched, unzipped Ben's jacket, helped him slip out of it.

Excitedly Ben nodded. "Yeah! He sits in the desk next to me, he's really funny and was nice. When another boy was being mean, he stuck up for me."

Hearing that someone was possibly bullying his son made him stop in his tracks. "What did this other boy do? The one who was being mean?"

Ben shrugged. "He's in Year 2 and was trying to boss me around."

"Oh really?" he said, combing his hair down with his fingers.

"And he made fun of the way I talk."

He sighed; by dint of having lived most of his young life in Manhattan, his child did have a distinct way of speaking. "I'm sorry."

"Brian thinks it's cool, though."

"Brian?"

"My new friend."

"Oh, right," he laughed. "I'm sorry. Brian thinks what's cool?"

Ben pursed his lips in a very adult sort of way. He was definitely his father's son. "The way I talk. He said it's like the pictures, whatever that means."

At this he couldn't help but chuckle, take the boy into his arms for a hug. He had also been affected by American telly. "What they call 'the movies' here. And I suppose it is, isn't it?"

"It was a very exciting first day, Mr Darcy."

He looked up to see the nanny, Lynn, who came in with an almost weary smile. "So it would seem," he said, releasing Ben and standing upright. "New school and a new friend, all on the same day."

"He talked about it the whole drive home," Lynn said. "Really surprised me, to be honest." She slipped out of her own overcoat. "I met the new friend, and he seems a sweet kid, though a bit rambunctious. Spitting image of his mother—well, I say 'mother', but she may have been a nanny too, for all I know." She turned back to her charge. "Why don't you and I go upstairs, Ben, and get you changed into your play clothes? Then you can tell your Dad and Mum all about your day."

"Mum's not home yet," he heard Ben say as they scaled the stairs.

"She'll be home soon," said the nanny. "She'll be so pleased to hear…"

Lynn's voice faded out as they got further away, and he turned to his thoughts. He was really surprised, too, to hear of Ben's effusiveness; normally he was very quiet, inwardly focused, self-entertaining and shy. He was also surprised that Ben had made a friend with such apparent ease. Ben hadn't left many friends behind in New York, and he hadn't made any new ones here in London yet.

The whole situation reminded him of himself at that age, a painful, awkward time when he'd had no confidence in himself, was tongue-tied more often than not, was socially inept and friendless. Even at his own birthday parties he'd tended to recede to the corners and involve himself in a solitary activity.

He went to the sitting room to pour himself a shot of scotch to help calm his nerves after his rough day. As he did, as the warmth of the amber liquid snaked through his system, he smiled to think of his own childhood, which in turn made him think of—

"Mark! Are you home?"

His smile fell; he finished the shot then set down the glass and turned to face the door. "Yes," he said. "I'm in here."

She came in, looked him up and down. "Scotch?" she asked tersely.

She hated when he drank after work, and he replied with a more defensive than intended, "Nice to see you too." Hoping to avoid a row, he added, reverting to the subject that was always their neutral ground, "Ben had a really great day at school. Made a friend."

Her features softened. "Oh, I'm glad to hear that," she said. "Moving back to London has been so rough on him."

Mark nodded. "He'll probably come down soon and tell you all about it," he said, even as he felt a bit peeved that she had not gone straight up after such a landmark day to find Ben the moment she'd come in.

The peevishness faded, though, when she smiled and said, "I can't wait to hear all about it."

The thundering down the stairs, accompanied by the loud shout of "Mum!", told Mark that Ben had realised she'd gotten home. Ben appeared at the door with a big smile, ran up to her just as she crouched to take him into her arms for a brief hug. "Oh, sweetie," she said. "I heard you had a very good day."

"Oh _yes_," he said, and as she released him, Ben then proceeded to repeat to his mother what he had told Mark upon his arrival: that he had a new friend who had the seat assigned next to Ben's; that this friend, Brian, had defended him against a mean kid; that Brian thought he had a 'cool' accent. "And we had our art section, too," Ben went on, addressing the both of them. "I did a drawing of our house and he did one of his cat. It was really good. Mum, can we have a cat?"

"I've told you a hundred times, sweetie, no pets." Sharply she clapped her hands once. "Now come on, it's time for dinner, then you can have a little playtime before you go off to bed. Go on and wash yourself up. Dining room, five minutes."

"Yes, Mum," Ben said obediently, then ran off towards the loo.

"You should do the same, Mark," she said. "Housekeeper gets pretty upset when we're not there to eat the food she times to be eaten precisely at seven."

He thought that it was not really the housekeeper who got upset.

She strode out of the room, leaving him with his thoughts for a brief moment before he went to wash up. He did not have these thoughts often—not as often as he used to, anyway—about how his life might have gone in a different direction, or at least, the journey to where he was now would have been a hell of a lot more fun.

"Yes, Mary," he murmured to no one before he proceeded on with his evening.

…

There were some days that Mark would not forget as long as he lived: the day he thought he was going to be a father; the day he learned he was not, in favour of the one man who could truly be considered his rival, Daniel; the day he offered to adopt said child but was given no answer, which was in itself all the answer she needed to give; and then the day when he rather unexpectedly learned he had, in actual fact, a child on the way. How the last of those events were an indirect result of the previous.

That child, Ben, whom he loved more than he ever thought he could have, was a bright child, though perhaps too isolated from children his own age, and even from his own busy, working parents. Mark had always vowed that when they were back in London, he would change that, but the return to London and a lighter schedule for himself coincided in a most unfortunate way with the start of compulsory education.

The dash those years ago to New York to get away from it all, from the heartbreak of losing the woman he loved to the father of her child, would be what set his life on the path it would ultimately take. It was a chance meeting with an old acquaintance from Cambridge—brunette, hazel-eyed, and attractive in her own way, though by no means stunning—that led to comfort in her arms in an ill-advised one-night stand before his return to London… and led to the call, two months later, that she was expecting his child. "I'm going to keep it," she had informed; he had advised in return that she could count on him to properly support her to the best of his ability. "It's exciting and terrifying," she had admitted. "Doing this all on my own in New York—all of my family's over there."

He'd told her he would consider his next steps.

He had, in all honestly, dragged his feet in this consideration; he offered, instead, to adopt his rival's child, hoping against all hope that he could reconcile with the woman he loved. However, it had been that fateful meeting in April, seeing her seven months into her pregnancy, the reality of the child just a couple of months from being born on top of hearing she was moving in with Daniel, that was what decided things once and for all:

Mark could not stay. It may have been cowardly to leave the city, the country he called home, but he could not be there to see Bridget and Daniel raising a baby together.

Off to New York he went for what he thought might be a one-year stint; they decided that, for the sake of the baby and to protect each other's legal interest in the most expedient way, to marry. Her work then his became too much of an entanglement to leave until the previous summer, just in time for Ben's formal schooling to start.

The five years he and Mary had been married hadn't been bad by any means. He didn't love her, or more precisely, was not in love with her, but he had known that going into the arrangement, and so had she. Her parenting style was a bit more structured and somewhat more emotionally distant than he thought he would ever have been comfortable with, especially since it had so closely resembled his own rearing in many ways, though there were some who might have thought 'emotionally distant' was right up his street. He saw so much in Ben of himself at that same age, though, and he remembered how difficult that age had been for him.

Mark was glad that Ben had found a friend already.

…

_Approaching Autumnal Equinox_

For the next fortnight, Ben's parents were regaled with tales of school and of Brian, from teaming up with him in physical education and in preliminary French, to trying playfully to outdo one another in the technology lab; the pair were apparently inseparable, which was reinforced by what Lynn saw in retrieving Ben from school. Mark had never quite seen Ben so happy, and it made Mark happy too.

As the calendar approached the end of September, Mark received a call from Lynn mid-morning. "I hope that you don't mind," she said, sounding quite nervous, "but when I dropped Ben off this morning they learned they were closing the school at noon. Totally unexpected. Since his mum seemed in such a panic trying to think of what to do, I offered to take Ben's friend back to the house when I go for him in a bit. The poor woman had no other option with some big meeting she had, and the boys seem to be such good friends…" She sighed. "I know I should have asked first but…"

"Don't give it a second thought," he said. "I'm mostly worried that you will have your hands full with two of them playing off of one another."

She laughed lightly, obviously relieved. "I'm fine with it, only hoped you might be," she said. "His mum will come for him at about half six, so you'll get to meet her at last."

"Oh, good," he said, reclining back in his chair. "I look forward to making her acquaintance."

Mark decided to leave work a little early in order to properly meet young Brian, and see the two boys interacting together to gauge the new friendship. He arrived home at about quarter to six to find the two of them up in Ben's playroom, playing with the train set; they were so engaged that they did not notice him at the door at first. It gave Mark a chance to observe them quietly.

They were very much a study in opposites. Where his own son's dark, wavy hair and lighter eyes were shades of brown, his skin fair from spending time indoors, Brian had straight, gold-streaked honey-brown hair that, along with his skin, spoke of a love of the outdoors, and when the boy looked up at last Mark saw he had the palest blue eyes he'd ever seen.

"Ben, is that your dad?" Brian asked. Ben turned around. Mark smiled at seeing the grin on Ben's face.

"Care to introduce me?" he asked Ben.

"Yeah." He got to his feet, as Brian did too. "Dad, this is my friend Brian. Brian, this is my dad."

Mark smiled, offering his hand. "It's good to meet you," he said.

Impressed, perhaps, that an adult was treating him more like an adult than a child, Brian gawked a little as he shook Mark's hand. "Nice to meet you too," he said.

"Do you like trains, too?" asked Mark.

"Oh yeah," he said with a big grin, then pointed. "I never had one of these, though. It's pretty cool."

'One of these' was Ben's elaborate train set, one that was set up on a table in the playroom; the table was about half a meter high, just right for the boys' height. It was more than just a track and engines, though; Ben had enjoyed very much choosing the miniature houses, trees, cars and even little people to peppered the landscape.

"It _is_ pretty cool, isn't it," Mark said with a smile. "Well, boys, don't let me disturb your playing."

Ben fired the train back up and they watched it do circuits around the track; Mark became mesmerised by the train as well. It brought back memories of his own childhood, of his own similarly impressive train set, which, in a moment of rebellious foolishness as a young adult, he had discarded. He had always regretted the action, so it pleased him that his own son had taken such an interest in trains. He would always remember the reaction Ben had had at the toy store when Ben had seen the train doing its circuit; the wide eyes, the gasp, breaking free from his dad's hand and running to watch it go around and around—

There was a quiet knock at the door frame, which brought Mark's attention back to the present. He turned to meet Lynn's eyes; Lynn spoke but he didn't hear a thing. He imagined she was introducing him to Brian's mum, but the introduction was not necessary.

"Bridget," he said quietly, feeling slightly discombobulated, even shocked.

She stared up at him as if he had dropped down from outer space and into the room. "Mark?" she asked incredulously.

The moment of silence that passed between two of them seemed to last forever. She looked terrific, not much different than when he'd seen her last. Her hair was longer than when he'd seen her last, long enough to be held back with a barrette as it was at that moment, and she looked thinner than he remembered (though she had been quite pregnant at their last meeting), but her eyes were just as bright and blue as ever.

And then she surprised him. After a blindingly wide smile, she reached out, gave him a hug, and said, "It is very good to see you."

He hugged her in return, momentarily overwhelmed by the long-forgotten sensation of having her in his embrace, the scent of her favourite perfume; a quiet throat-clearing caused his eyes to flit up to meet Lynn's. Lynn looked very confused and asked for an explanation with her expression alone. He mouthed the word, "Later," then drew back and said to Bridget, "This is totally unexpected."

"You're telling me," she said, then turned to the boys and smiled fondly, though much more reserved than the first one.

"I'll… leave you to it, then," said Lynn with an awkwardness she couldn't mask. She took a step back, turned, and then walked away.

"It's funny," said Bridget, who looked up to him again. "The last time I saw you, I was all in a dither about trains."

He searched his memory for the conversation from that day, then chuckled when he recalled the Thomas the Tank Engine trains she had encountered on her way out to Magda's place in the country that April day. "I'd forgotten all about that," he confessed.

She chuckled, looking wistful. "When I first met Ben, I had this uncanny feeling that he looked familiar. Now I know why."

Before he had a chance to say anything, a child's voice interrupted his thoughts. "Mum, do you know Ben's dad?"

Mark realised both boys had stopped playing and were now standing there together, staring up at them.

"Yeah, we…" She trailed off, then said, "Yeah."

"Oh, good," said Brian with a great big grin. "That means we can play together more."

He saw a blush stain her cheeks. "Get your things, buddy," she said, patting his head, glancing up to Mark again, as Brian let out an expected protest. "Come on. We have to go." Brian and Ben dashed off, and in a quieter tone, she said, "Sorry about that."

"Don't apologise," Mark said. "I am very much in favour of more playtime for Ben."

She offered a smile back. "Good," she said. "I would hate to think you were uncomfor—well. We're all adults, right?"

Icy cold threaded down into his stomach at the reminder who Brian's father was… but she was right. They were adults and if necessary, he could limit the time he spent with Daniel. He would never show Daniel any outward hint of animosity in the presence of his son, and he hoped that Daniel would do the same in kind. "Yes," he said at last.

With Ben in tow, he walked Bridget and Brian to the front door. Bridget crouched to get Brian's jacket on and zipped, ensured his bag wasn't missing anything, then turned and asked Ben, "Did you have a nice afternoon?"

Ben nodded. "We had fun with my train."

"I bet you did," Bridget said, then rose to her full height. "Well, I'll see you again tomorrow, I'm sure."

Ben nodded again with a smile on his face. "I hope so," said Ben.

Bridget faced Mark once more. "Thanks for taking him this afternoon on such short notice, Mark. I was in a real pinch."

"It was no trouble at all."

"Well," she said, "we'd best be off. I'm sure we'll be seeing you around." She offered another smile. "Goodbye."

"Goodbye, Bridget," he said in return, leaning to get the door for them, then closing it after they left.

He had no time at all to let what had just happened sink in, as Lynn returned and told Ben to get upstairs to change out of his school clothes for dinner. "I'll be up to help you in a moment," she said, then, as he disappeared, said in a confidential tone to Mark. "So you know Brian's mum already? How?"

"She's…" he began as a parade of possible descriptors flickered through his mind—_my ex; the woman I tried desperately to have a child with; the woman I lost to Daniel Cleaver; the woman I've loved most in my life and would have married if she'd've had me_—but settled at last with a bland, neutral, "a childhood friend."

She did not even try to mask the look of utter scepticism from her features; he wondered what Lynn had seen on his features in that moment when his gaze had lit on Bridget. "Shall I keep this quiet with the missus, then?"

"Might be best for me to bring it up at the right time," he said, though could not imagine when that might ever be.

"Right," she said. She looked serious for a moment. "It didn't seem to matter before, but… I should mention that I've met Brian's dad, too. Daniel, I think? He's been by to pick up Brian a few times—once or twice with Bridget." Mark was not sure why she felt she needed to mention this, but then she added, "I suppose you know him as well?"

Mark nodded. Against all odds, it seemed they were still together. "Yes."

"Let me go help Ben, and you can, I don't know, have a glass of wine after your big shock." She winked then went up the staircase.

Mark slipped out of his suit jacket, loosened his tie, and went down to the kitchen for some red wine, not giving a care for what Mary might say if she caught him drinking again before dinner. It was a habit he had fallen out of many years ago, and it amused him to think that the two times he'd done so in recent memory involved Bridget (even if he hadn't realised it the first time).

As he enjoyed that wine, he thought about the day's surprise, which renewed the bloom of pleasure mixed with the twinge of regret that he'd felt at seeing Bridget again. He thought too of how he knew with certainty—how he had always known—that, while it may have been sublimated by his duty to his child and wife, his love for Bridget had never truly gone away. If only they had succeeded in having that child during that dreadful period of trial and failure…

"Mark, how do we expect Ben to tidy up after himself if you don't?"

It was Mary, holding up the suit jacket he had discarded on his way to the kitchen; he hadn't even remembered setting it down.

"Sorry. I was distracted. I'll take it upstairs." He set his wine glass down.

"And wine before dinner? That isn't a good habit to start."

He held up his hand. "Truce," he said wearily. "We had unexpected company this afternoon. Brian."

"Oh, really?"

Mark explained the situation with the school unexpectedly calling a half-day, and Brian having nowhere else to go. "His mother was deeply appreciative. I…" He briefly considered explaining his past relationship with Bridget, perhaps distilled down to the main points, but with dinner on the horizon and Ben due any moment, he decided to table it for the time being, collect his thoughts on the matter. Instead he said, "…got a chance to see them playing together. They have a great dynamic."

"I'm very glad to hear that. He's fortunate, and so are we."

"Mum!" That very boy called down the stairs as he descended. "Brian came to play today!" Ben appeared, his cheeks pink with the exertion of trying to move faster than he was physically able, with a bright smile on his face. "We had _such_ fun and he really thinks my trains are cool."

Mary offered a prim smile; he knew she did not understand the fascination he and their son had with trains. "I'm so pleased, Ben. I really am. Well. Are we ready to eat, then? All washed up?"

Ben nodded, then added, "And Dad got to meet Brian's mum! She gave him a _really_ long hug."

Mary's eyes flashed to Mark. "A _hug_?" she asked, her brows coming together.

So much for composing his thoughts. He glanced to his happy son, then back to Mary. "She was a childhood friend," he said, reverting to what he'd told Lynn, adding, "Her parents still live in Grafton Underwood."

When she responded, her voice had gone quite cool. "Oh," she said, pulling her mouth into a tight line. "Bridget."

"Yeah!" exclaimed Ben unhelpfully. "That's her name! She's really pretty too, didn't you think?" The final question was directed towards Mark.

"Sure," he said noncommittally. "Come on, Ben, let's have dinner."

Ben raced ahead of them towards the dining room. As they walked, Mary was strangely quiet.

"Mary—" he began, but she held up her hand, and he stopped speaking.

"Not now," she said in a low tone. "Dinner."

From all appearances, their dinner was perfectly normal; Mary was as attentive as she ever was to Ben's tales from the day. It relaxed Mark, and it allowed him to relax about the conversation to come, after Ben's bedtime, after dinner. He knew Mary was under no illusion that he was in love with her, so he reasoned that their discussion would at least not be emotional or overwrought. Still, he was not particularly looking forward to it.

She brought it up as they prepared for bed that night, standing side by side in the en suite, at their respective sinks; she in her nightgown, he in his boxers and vest. "You know what I'm going to say," she said without preamble, patting her face with a cotton towel, then looking up again.

"I have a good idea," he said.

"I have no romantic notion about us, Mark, but I don't want Ben getting—"

"The wrong idea. Yes. I know." He met her reflection's gaze. "I was caught off guard. Sorry. It won't happen again."

She looked down, then reached for her toothbrush. "Apology accepted," she said at last, then, after squeezing a portion of toothpaste out, began to clean her teeth.

It was, apparently, all the conversation they'd have about it, and all that was needed. He did appreciate that she was relatively free of drama, but for the first time in a very long time, he felt far too lonely for a married man.

…

_Nearing end of September_

It was not long after this initial encounter—just a few days later, on the weekend—that the inevitable was arranged: a play date. Communication went through Lynn, for which Mark was actually grateful; he still felt a bit uncomfortable with the thought of ringing up Bridget, or calling the house phone and getting Daniel. Since the boys were so eager to get together, the play date was set for Saturday; since Brian was eager to show Ben his room, and Bridget wanted to return the favour from earlier in the week, the play date would be at Brian's.

Mary had a prior engagement to get her hair done and Lynn had the weekends off, so Mark would be the one to see the Cleaver household first hand. He was nervous about it, perhaps not surprisingly.

Ben could hardly contain his excitement—it struck Mark again how changed the boy was since finding his new friend—and so the morning was very trying, to the point where Mary left twenty minutes before she needed to. "I'm sorry, Mark," she'd said, "but I can feel a headache oncoming if I don't get away from the racket. I know he's in good hands." With a peck to Mark's cheek and to Ben's, she took off.

Knowing what he did about London traffic, they left with plenty of time to spare to get to the Notting Hill address that Mark had plugged in to the satnav. Ben bounced in his car seat as he sang along the music Mark had put on in the hopes of calming him; Mark smiled a bit, thinking instead that it'd had the opposite effect.

He found the address with little problem, pulled up alongside the kerb, helped Ben undo the safety belt, then walked with him, holding his hand, up the path towards the door. The house appeared to be semi-detached, with two front doors side-by-side on the front porch. He rang the bell on the door bearing the number he'd been given, and promptly heard a scramble then footsteps leading up to the door, which then opened.

Standing there was Brian, who was grinning widely, and behind him, with his hand on Brian's shoulder, was Daniel. Mark braced himself mentally for a rapier-sharp comment from Daniel that would cut him to the core while sailing over the heads of their respective boys, because it was just the sort of thing Daniel would have done… and had done in the past.

"Well," Daniel said, stepping aside to allow them passage in, "hello, Mark. A bit of déjà vu, wouldn't you say? Dulwich Prep strikes again."

Mark tried to parse the question as just such a comment, but the fact was that the genuine smile and gentle tone suggested a surprising sincerity.

"Hello," Mark said warily, expecting the other proverbial shoe to drop. He was surprised when it did not, when instead Brian piped up with a question:

"Mr Darcy, is it really true that you went to Dulwich with my dad like he told me?"

This made Ben gasp a little. "Did you _really_, Dad? Did you? Did you?"

"It's true, son, yes," said Mark; he couldn't help smiling a little. "We met during Year 1, just like you two."

The boys looked to each other in an almost exaggerated shock, then up to their respective fathers.

"So you're _friends_?" asked Ben.

Mark cleared his throat, glancing to Daniel. "We… haven't kept in touch, no."

They again both looked shocked, as if they could not imagine themselves in a similar situation, voluntarily not speaking or seeing one another again.

"Did you have a row?" Brian asked.

_Understatement_, thought Mark, as Daniel said, "A bit." Daniel raised his gaze to meet Mark's. "But that was a long time ago, and it's probably time to put that behind us."

Again Mark strained to make out any hint of sarcasm in his tone or expression, but to his surprise there was none to be found. He began to nod. "I agree."

A quiet throat-clearing caught his attention, and all four of them turned to see Bridget standing out of sight in a doorway just a short way away. "Hi Ben," she said, emerging into the hallway. "Hi Mark. Was just out back in the garden—boys, you can go on back—" As she said it, Brian gestured and the two dashed away together. "—and I thought I heard a car arrive. Didn't have any trouble on your way here, did you?"

"No, no," he said, feeling like he was babbling nonsense as he went on, "Quite easy to find. Easy trip."

"Good," she said. All went silent. Mark felt as nervous as a cat, and at a loss for words to boot. Bridget filled in the silence. "Would you… care to join us out back for a drink? I've got some lemonade."

"No, I must be off," he said quickly. "Shall I come for him before dinner?"

"He can stay, if you don't mind," Bridget said. "Any allergies, or anything?"

Mark shook his head. "I don't mind. Thanks."

With that he went towards the front door, Bridget and Daniel both walking him out. He said a quiet "Goodbye" again before descending and returning to his car. As he engaged the engine, he looked back to the porch to see them standing there, Bridget raising her hand in a small wave; what got Mark's attention, however, was the fact that Daniel had his arm around her waist, his hand on her hip, and had bent as if to say something close into her ear.

Quickly he looked away. He didn't know why exactly he found it so painful; the two of them had had a child together, they were living together… they had _been_ together. Nevertheless, such an overt sign of intimacy between them left him feeling almost…

"Heartbroken," he said in a quiet voice, and was instantly grateful for the fact that he was alone.

His own house seemed huge and empty when he got there, with Mary at her appointment for probably the rest of the afternoon and Ben away with Brian; a sense of melancholy washed over him. He had a good life, a stable life, with a fulfilling career and a son that meant the world to him; even if his wife wasn't his soul mate, she was his partner in their marriage, one for whom he cared and whom he respected, and they had worked very well together in that partnership, raising their son. Yet—

"Snap out of it," he murmured.

Despite this self-chastisement, he found himself in his home office, opening a storage cabinet, reaching into it for the small box he had not touched in some time, one that was amongst his file archives but had nothing to do with his work. He pulled it down, slipped off the lid, the tawny leather soft beneath his fingertips; sitting on the top of the neatly arranged row of chronologically organised photos was one of himself and of Bridget that had somehow come loose.

He picked it up, looked at it more closely. It was from near the end of their relationship; this much he remembered. A summer picnic, and they were both smiling, but they were smiles that had been hard to dredge to the surface. All that trying for the baby, the frustration leading to pointless rows, the pointless rows leading to splitting up; he kicked himself for letting it all go to hell, letting things get so bad, for not fighting harder to keep her… and not fighting harder to win her back after the briefest of reunions.

He flipped towards the back of the row of photos and tucked it into place approximately where it needed to go, then gently perused the stack. There was a Christmas shot during happier times, where she looked glossy-eyed and beaming after opening her gift from him, a pair of Tiffany earrings. There were photos of their minibreak in Paris which had seemed a surprising anchor and oasis of sanity when his life was consumed by the chaos of living and working in Japan; photos of them walking through the streets along the Seine, then of her asleep in the bed after they'd made love, before the fiasco of the burnt fillet steak, curled around the pillow and quietly sleeping, her features as angelic as he'd ever seen them. There was the one he'd taken surreptitiously from his mother from her collection from their Ruby Wedding party held at his old Holland Park house, looking happy though a bit distracted, wearing that gorgeous dress in which he could picture her like it was yesterday. She was holding on to a satay stick in one hand and a glass of wine in the other; in this she was standing beside her father, who'd mustered the world's most unconvincing smile.

If he'd holed up with these pictures in the hopes of cheering himself, the results had been disastrous. Before he could fall further into the depths of nostalgia, however, he heard movement elsewhere in the house. He put the box's lid back on, then hid the box away where he kept it. He didn't think Mary knew of the box, and he didn't want to draw her attention to it.

He emerged from his office in time to come face to face with Mary. Her hair was a bit shorter, but otherwise seemed unchanged. "Oh, there you are. Tell me you're not working."

"I'm not," he said. "Was just looking for… well, found it." He patted his pocket, in which his wallet and mobile resided. "Your hair looks very nice."

She smiled. "Thanks. So, Ben's off on his play date?"

Mark nodded; he couldn't help but grin. "He's been invited to stay for dinner."

"Really?" Mary asked. "Well, I suppose it won't hurt to have leftovers from dinner. Speaking of dinner…" She paused, glancing to her watch. "I should get it out of the fridge and into the oven. Always so impressed by the variety she can produce, that Therese." With a half-smile she turned and headed back the way she'd come in order to head to the kitchen.

Dinner was a three-cheese quiche; Therese, their housekeeper and cook, had really outdone herself on this one, managing the perfect flaky crust. As they ate, they talked, and it struck Mark, once he'd consciously decided to be more aware of what they were saying, how much of their conversation focused on Ben: about upcoming school projects, half term, holidays; about how quickly she speculated Ben would need new school clothes given how much he'd grown in the last year; about planning ahead for Christmas gifts and which toys could be slated for charity as being too far below his age.

Mark loved his son, would do anything for his son, but the conversation thoroughly depressed him. Had they really lost so much of their identity as individuals? Was Ben truly the only thing they had in common? He yearned for the days—a yearning undoubtedly spurred by the reintroduction of her into his life—when he would call or see Bridget in the evenings after work, and they would tell each other everything about their respective days. How he had loved every minute of it, even if it had led to sparring, because sparring always meant they'd make up in the end.

They were bringing their plates to the kitchen when his mobile rang. He reached in to his pocket, glanced, as was habit, to the display. Adrenaline rushed as he saw the name there: Bridget. He'd forgotten she was still in his phone contact list, and she evidently still had the same mobile number.

"Mark Darcy speaking," he said in answering it.

There was a pause, then a light laugh. "Wow, it's been a while since I heard that."

He smiled. "Hello. Is Ben ready?"

"Not just yet; we're just finishing up having a little dessert—apple crumble. But I thought you might want to head over here."

He glanced up to Mary, who was watching him. "Yes, certainly. We were just finishing dinner, ourselves."

"Oh," said Bridget. "Why don't you… bring your wife along? I'd like to meet her. Ben's mum."

"Sure, I'm sure she'd love to." He swung the mobile away from his mouth, then said to Mary, "Care to ride with me to pick up Ben? Bridget would like to meet you."

"Certainly," Mary said coolly; "I'd like to meet her, too."

"We'll be there soon," he said. "See you then. Goodbye."

The drive was spent in silence, and was fortunately quick thanks to light traffic. As they parked he watched Mary appraise the neighbourhood with her expression alone (it passed muster), then they climbed the stairs together. The door opened before he had a chance to knock. It was Bridget.

"Hi," she said; she looked a little harried, perhaps not unexpected after a day of watching two five-year-old boys, but no less lovely than she had before. Bridget turned her gaze to Mary. "Hi—please come in. I'm Bridget, Brian's mum. So nice to meet you at last," she said, backing up to allow them in, but extending her hand for a cordial shake.

"Mary. Mary Darcy," she said, accepting the handshake, and offering a cautious smile. The emphasis on her surname was a bit odd to him, until he realised she was being a bit territorial. It shouldn't have been surprising to him; given her initial reaction to Brian's mum being Bridget, Mark was sure that Mary had learned a lot about her (and her past with Mark) from his own mother.

If the emphasis on her married name stood out to Bridget, it didn't show on her face. In fact, it saddened him somewhat that Bridget did not seem in the least bit jealous. "Well," she said brightly, "the boys are just putting the toys away. Would you care for some apple crumble? The recipe makes loads. Or maybe coffee?"

"Ah, I thought I heard you come in. Mark… and you must be the missus. Pleasure to meet you." Daniel came into the room, hand extended. "Daniel Cleaver."

"Mary Darcy." She shook it with a kinder smile than the one she gave to Bridget.

"Well, the boys'll be right down," Daniel said.

"I've said that," said Bridget. She looked from Mary to Mark again. "So… about the coffee?"

"We'll pass, but thank you," said Mary pleasantly, then called out, "Benedict! We're here!"

Mark saw Bridget's brows rise in surprise, more at the name, he thought, then the fact that Mary seemed so impatient to collect Ben and leave. "Name suits him well," she said with a smile. "That's not one I hear every day, though."

"After my father," Mary said. "Benedict Malcolm."

"Ah," said Bridget. "I was wondering how your dad would fit in there, Mark."

"There you are," said Mary as the boys thundered into the room. "Did you have a nice time?"

"Oh, yeah, the best!" Ben enthused. "We played football with Daniel, played with the cat a bit, and Bridget played a board game with us. It was so fun!" Mark looked to Mary's reaction at the informality of referring to them by their given names; Mark was not surprised given what he remembered of her godchild Constance, but Mary clearly seemed taken aback.

"Are you ready to go?" Mary asked sharply. "You don't even have your shoes on."

"Sorry, Mum." He and Brian dashed out again.

"It sounds like they had a nice time, indeed," Mark said in an effort to fill the silence until Ben returned.

"I think they did," Bridget said. "A rather exhausting day. I suspect they'll sleep well tonight, as will I."

Mark chuckled. "Which game?"

"Snakes and Ladders, Dad," said Ben as he returned to the room, fully shod and with his jacket on. "It's like the one we had in New York, sorta. But snakes instead of chutes."

Mark chuckled.

"He didn't bring anything with him, did he, Mark?" asked Mary.

"No, just what he has on."

Mary turned to Bridget and Daniel. "Thanks again for having him here," she said, smiling, tapping into a reserve of goodwill Mark didn't realise she still had. "Brian is all he talks about. I'm glad they've made friends."

"I'm glad too," said Daniel. "He needs Ben's calming influence on his life." With this he shot Mark a glance.

"We'll see you again soon, I'm sure," said Mark. "Come on, Ben."

"Bye, Brian," Ben said, taking his father's hand.

"Bye, Ben," said Brian with a grin; in that moment Mark really saw both of his parents in Brian's features.

During the drive home, Ben fell to sleep, which didn't surprise Mark one bit, given the excitement of the day.

"They seem happy," said Mary. At first he thought she meant the boys, but then she added, "A happy couple, Daniel and Bridget."

"Mm," said Mark, taking a corner. He had to admit they did, though it aggravated him to think of it.

"I thought she was nice," Mary added. He caught the connotation: almost too nice.

"That's just the way she is," he said curtly, ending the conversation.

When they arrived home, Mark finished tidying up the dishes from dinner while Mary put Ben to bed; he finished, went upstairs, and found Mary in the sitting room scowling at a newspaper. Concerned that something in the paper had upset her, he asked if everything was okay.

She set the paper down, and focused her glare at him. "I'm getting a little tired of being blindsided, Mark," she said, with a quiet anger he had never heard from her before. "First Brian's mother turns out to be an ex-girlfriend whose praises your mother still sings… and now Ben tells me Daniel went to Dulwich with you. That you were _friends_. Anything more I should know?"

Mark sat beside her. "It's true, Daniel and I were friends at Dulwich prep. We met again at Cambridge, became mates." He paused. "You know the story of how my first marriage ended."

He did not need to spell it out for her; she had heard the story before, just not who had played the major role in it ending. "Oh my God. Daniel was…?"

The sentence did not need completion. He nodded.

"And did he come between Bridget and you, too?" she asked; he could not tell if she was interrogating him or merely being sympathetic. "Steal her away?"

He shook his head. "They were together first. Then we went out, split up for… totally unrelated reasons." He remembered that one last night they had together, three months after the split, still regretting his inaction afterwards. "Then… they got back together when she found out she was pregnant with his baby. With Brian."

"You seemed very friendly with him tonight," she said. He looked up to meet her gaze. He now leaned towards sympathy.

"It was the first time I'd seen him in some time," Mark said. "I thought seeing him would make those old hurts flare up, but to my surprise, they didn't. Maybe it's because the boys reminded me of myself and Daniel at that age. So we came to an understanding when I dropped Ben off. There was no point in hanging on to old animosity, not when it could disrupt the boys' friendship. What's past is in the past." He yawned. "Sorry."

"Seems like it's been a long day for you too." She patted his shoulder. "If you like I can draw you a bath. Sit, relax, then you can have a good, long night's sleep. Does that sound all right?"

He nodded. It sounded quite all right, indeed.

The spruce-scented bathwater hit his senses as soon as he opened the bathroom door; it must have some new concoction she'd recently purchased, maybe even that day whilst out getting her hair done. She had laid out a towel for him, had even lit a candle and switched off the light, which, all things considered, was very solicitous of her.

Mark climbed in, surrounded by that pleasant though pungent fragrance, once which inevitably made him think of Christmas, and, in particular, of a certain enormous Christmas tree that he had helped to trim down in a topiary manner so many years ago with Bridget. There was no way Mary could have known the association, an association that made him smile as he felt the tension leech out of his body. In fact, he very nearly drifted off to sleep; the cooling water was the only thing that kept him from doing so. When he emerged and dried off with the soft cotton towel, he felt much less wound up overall about the day, about the new reality of his son's best friend's parents. When he returned to the bedroom prepared to thank her again for the bath, he found Mary already had gone to sleep. Gently he slipped in beside her in the king-sized bed, reached up and switched off the bedside light.


	2. Chapter 2

**Mr & Mrs Darcy**

By S. Faith, © 2013

Words: 30,042

Rating: M / R

Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 2. **

_Last day of September_

Mark had been very much looking forward to the open house for the first year students at the school ever since enrolling Ben; he had been eager to see the grounds, the classrooms and maybe even some of the same staff from when he had attended when he was the same age, as well as meeting Ben's teachers and seeing how much the facilities had changed.

His eagerness now was tinged with a little exhilaration, because he hoped very much that Brian's parents—or at least Brian's mother—would attend, too.

It was the following Saturday afternoon, which was still quite sunny and warm for the tail end of September, that this open house occurred, and the three of them made the short drive to the school. He quickly learned that it was less like an open house, more like a garden party, with a small outdoor area decorated and refreshments served.

Mark did a quick scan, noting that neither Brian nor his parents were yet there. This did not surprise him unduly, however, as he could easily believe that her pathological lateness would not be something even motherhood could easily eradicate.

"I don't see Brian either," said Mary; Mark regretted he had not been more subtle.

"He said they were coming," said Ben.

"Probably just running behind," Mark said. "Probably can't find her keys or something." As he said it, he regretted that, too.

Mary said quietly, "You would know."

"Shall I get us something to drink?" Mark said, hoping to redirect the subject. "Ben? Would you care for some juice? A biscuit?"

He nodded enthusiastically, so he took Ben by the hand and went over to the table without waiting for a reply from Mary. He would just get Mary whatever they had.

He was crouched down, ensuring Ben had a good hold on his glass of apple juice and his biscuit firmly in his grasp when a familiar perfume reached his nose. He looked to his side, saw shapely lower legs and low kitten-heeled shoes, then looked up as he rose to his full height.

"Hi, Ben; hi, Mark."

Ben smiled. "Hi, Bridget."

"Hi," echoed Mark. "Was just getting refreshments for us and for Mary." He gestured over to where his wife was chatting with another woman. "I… assume Brian's here?"

She chuckled. "Daniel took him to the loo."

"Ah," Mark said. "Thought it would have been a bit strange for you to be here alone. Well—" He took the two cups that were sitting and waiting for him as Ben made a careful bee-line for his mother. "I should bring this to Mary. Care to join us?"

"I don't think I can refuse, as the boys will likely stay joined at the hip once Daniel and Brian come out here. Let me just get my own drink."

Without a second thought he gave her one of the cups he'd already ordered, then asked for another for Mary. She thanked him, and once they had the third, they walked to where Mary and Ben stood.

"Hello, Mary," Bridget said brightly with a smile that Mark knew to be genuine. "Nice to see you again. Oh, I love what you've done with your hair."

Mary looked equal parts flattered and surprised, and reflexively raised her hand to smooth her coif down. "Thank you," she said, offering a rather stiff smile; Mark thought it strange and somewhat rude that Mary didn't try to return the compliment, because he had never known her not to do so amongst his friends.

"Oh, hey Ben! There you are!" came a voice from the door. They all turned to see Brian running up towards them, his dad sauntering in behind him.

Daniel held up his hand as if to say hello. "I'll get him a drink," said Daniel, forgoing the rest of the usual greetings and diverting off to where the refreshments were.

"Hi again," said Brian, looking up to Mark, then to Mary.

"Hello," said Mark. With the two boys standing beside each other, Mark noticed immediately that they were wearing matching trainers. "That's a coincidence, you two," he said. "Your shoes are almost identical."

"Not a coincidence," said Bridget. "Brian fancied a pair to match, and since he needed new trainers anyway…"

"They act so much like brothers it's a bit spooky."

This statement from Mary—delivered with a surprising amount of amusement, even awe—left him speechless. Bridget, however, was quick to reply.

"Brian's always wanted a brother, and this saves me the trouble of getting up the spout again," she said with a chuckle.

_Verbal diarrhoea_, he thought, and burst out with a laugh before he could contain himself.

"Ah, let me guess. Bridge, stepping in it again?" It was Daniel, returning with a drink and a biscuit for Brian, and some juice for himself.

"Mary was just saying how their fast friendship is like they're brothers, almost."

Daniel's brow raised. "And you were saying, naturally, that it works out better for you that way."

"Naturally," said Bridget with a nod, then sipped her juice. "Hard enough to lose the weight the first go around."

"You'll never guess who I ran into up there," said Daniel, abruptly changing the subject. "Mr Rivers."

Mark blinked, scanning his memory for the person to whom Daniel could be referring. Then it clicked. "Mr Rivers? The maths man who seemed so ancient when we were children?"

"The same," Daniel said, pointing. Mark looked in the direction Daniel was indicating, and chuckled. It was indeed the same old man, though more wizened with age, something his five-year-old self hadn't even been able to comprehend.

"Go over and say hello," Mary suggested.

They did so, Mark and Daniel; to Mark's astonishment Rivers remembered the pair of them. "Always thought you boys would eventually take over the world." He narrowed his eyes, and with a hint of a smirk, added, "Though not as accountants. Though I am familiar with your work, Darcy."

Their chat with Rivers was surprisingly amiable—the man was due to retire at the end of the year, that the reason the pair of them had been so memorable was that he had only been teaching for a year… and Mark realised his childhood memory wasn't as reliable as he thought, because the man wasn't nearly as old as he suspected.

Thankfully, Rivers took it in stride. "I wasn't yet thirty when I started teaching, but I suppose to a five-year-old who didn't care much for the subject, I must have seemed an immortal ogre." He looked to the two of them again. "It's really a shame I can't have had your boys together in my last round of classes. Would have been a nice symmetry."

They wrapped up the conversation, shaking hands and saying goodbyes, before returning to where Bridget and Mary stood—clearly not talking—while watching over the boys, who had taken care of their biscuits and were halfway through their drinks. "So how did that go?" asked Bridget.

"Very strange," said Daniel, "but very nice. I feel about a thousand years old." The boys giggled.

"He's retiring after this year," said Mark. "Seemed a bit disappointed he didn't have the boys like he'd had the two of us." He glanced to Daniel, who glanced back with a grin. "And you? Nice chat?"

"Yes," said Bridget; it seemed quite obvious to Mark that she was lying through her teeth.

"Pardon me," said Mary, then took off like a shot.

Mark offered a sympathetic look.

"Well, I suppose _you_ might be happy to hear my news," said Bridget. "I've got my own show."

At first he did not quite understand what she meant. "Your own…" he began, perplexed.

"I'm sure you remember that, um, old boss of mine." It seemed like she'd been about to call him the sort of names she used to call him, but censored herself in front of the children, even though it hardly mattered; they were not really paying attention anymore. "I was given his job when he, er, left for greener pastures. Now… I'm going to be hosting a new show, too. Weekly half-hour programme."

"That's terrific," said Mark "Congratulations."

"Thanks," she said, beaming with pride. "That's what that big meeting was all about the day you took Brian in for the afternoon. We're wrapping up pre-production. I'm so excited."

"You'll have to let me know when it starts."

She chuckled. "I'm not sure it's your cup of tea, but, sure."

Mark was about to ask more, but Mary returned as the headmaster called for everyone's attention to begin the tour of the classrooms; he took Ben's hand as then began to walk. He noticed that Bridget had taken Brian's hand, that Daniel was close and hovered his hand near her waist. Mark tried to listen to what they were saying in low tones to one another, but there was too much general murmuring, not to mention that the headmaster was also speaking as they moved from room to room.

"Mark," said Mary.

"Yes?" he asked. He glanced to her; she looked annoyed.

"You haven't heard a word I said."

"I'm sorry… all the noise, I'm afraid I didn't. What was that again?"

"I was saying this is really a quality school," Mary said, "and that I was glad we'd chosen it."

He grinned. "I don't think I'd've considered another."

Aside from the modern technology upgrades in what was now called the ICT suite, things had not changed very much. The nostalgia of the setting washed over him, and he smiled with a sense of melancholy as he milled around the computer desks.

"Penny for your thoughts."

He turned to find that Mary had vanished again, and Bridget was beside him, giving him a sly smile that told him he was not going to get away with brushing her off, that he was thinking of nothing at all. "Just feeling a bit sentimental for days past," he said.

"Yeah," she said, glancing down to Brian, who was talking with Ben in a low voice. "I know how you feel."

"Was your school similar to this in many ways?"

She snapped her head back up to look at him with a confused look. Then she laughed a little. "Not at all the same," she said as she smiled. "Totally different—so much less structured."

"Well, that explains a lot," he joked.

She chuckled again. "Yeah." Then her smile faded a little. "It was a long time ago… and forty's looming large on the horizon. The time has gone by so quickly."

"It is," he said. "But I can hardly see it in you."

She glanced to him, then smiled again. "Are you implying I'm still a five-year-old at heart?" she said, then winked.

"That isn't what I meant," he said gently.

"Oh look," said Bridget. "We're back to where the juice was. Do you want some more, boys?" Ben agreed and let Mark's hand go, running ahead with Brian to the juice table. "I'd better see to them. Be right back."

He watched her walk ahead; Daniel joined her just as he felt Mary's hand on his shoulder. "The facilities here are just stellar. I'm impressed."

"Mm, yes," he said, turning to face her, offering a smile to her. He pointed with his thumb towards the table. "Ben's getting some more juice."

"Hm, yes, I see that," she said, looking in his direction. "He seems to be having a great time." She looked back to Mark. "I think after this we can head for home, don't you?"

He wondered how Ben would feel about being torn away from his friend so soon, and said so.

Mary pursed her lips. "He can't always get what he wants, Mark," she said. "You know that."

"Yes," he said. He knew that all too well.

…

_Mid-October_

"Have a message for you."

It was Lynn, who had come in with Ben a few minutes previously, and who had just sent Ben up to change into his play clothes. Her words, the quiet tone in which she delivered them and the smirk on her face made him instantly suspicious.

"Oh? From whom?"

"Bridget."

At this his brows raised. "And this top secret message is…?"

Lynn laughed. "She just mentioned that her show begins tomorrow, and thought you might want to catch it. Airs at half five."

"Right," he said. "Thanks."

All evening he pondered what to do to be able to watch. It aired while he was typically working, though Wednesdays were usually the quietest day of the week. _If I recorded it,_ he thought, _when could I watch? Bit awkward to watch one's ex in the presence of one's wife and child._ He decided then, given his workload, that he could just leave early to watch as it aired.

He chuckled quietly. He felt like he was planning an illicit tryst.

The following day he said his goodbyes and left with plenty of time to get home to his telly. He sat with a glass of wine and braced himself for the subject matter; knowing Bridget, it would be the sort of show he ordinarily wouldn't have watched, possibly concerning celebrities, left-wing politics, or both.

He would be proven wrong, and pleasantly so.

The screen changed and there Bridget sat, visible from the waist up, dressed in a flattering lavender suit jacket that made her eyes shine, a white silk blouse beneath. The set around her was relatively Spartan, brightly and warmly lit; next to her on a table was a small stack of books.

"Welcome to the inaugural episode of 'Novel Sensations'," she said with a smile. _Ah_, he thought with a chuckle, putting the title and the set dressing together, and feeling a bit ashamed that he'd made such assumptions; _a show about books._ "I'm your host, Bridget Jones, and today we'll be discussing the latest literary sensation to spring out of nowhere…"

She continued speaking, but all he could think about was her name. Not Cleaver; Jones. But the moment of optimism disappeared in a moment when he realised that it was probable she either a.) was using her maiden name professionally for continuity with her earlier television appearances—he thought with some fondness of the fireman's pole debacle—or b.) had never changed her name from her own, which would align with feminist principles.

The show itself was insightful and intriguing, and he found by the end of it that he had enjoyed it very much. He switched off the telly and took his wine glass downstairs to the kitchen, and as he returned to the ground floor, he heard footsteps in the foyer. It was Ben returning home with Lynn. "Dad!"

"Hey," he said, reaching out to pick Ben up, giving him a quick hug. "How'd the day go?"

"Pretty fun," Ben said with a grin. "We played some football. I got a goal!"

Mark asked, totally stunned, "Football?"

"Probably a kiddie version," said Lynn.

"But you don't like sport," Mark said.

"Brian's on my team," said Ben.

"Ah," he said with a laugh. "That explains it."

He set Ben down, admonishing him to put on his play clothes; after Ben disappeared, Lynn said, "So how was it?"

"How was what?" he asked, knowing full well to what she was referring.

"The show, Brian's mum Bridget's."

"Oh," he said, affecting an air of nonchalance. "It was quite good. It's a discussion about books. Well, fiction, so far. Modern. Very thoughtful, even educational."

"I'll tell her tomorrow."

"No," said Mark decidedly. "I'll call and tell her myself." He reached into his jacket pocket for his mobile. "Still in my contacts," he said as he scrolled through the list. "From before. Just never got around to removing it."

"Ah." Lynn smiled, then added, as she walked away, "I'll leave you to it."

Bridget picked up on the second ring. "Hello, stranger," she said. It took him a little by surprise, but he realised his name likely displayed on her screen.

"Hello, Bridget," he said, clearing his throat a little. "Just wanted to say I enjoyed the show very much. You should be very proud."

"Thank you, Mark," she said. "I take it that your nanny passed on the message, then."

"She did."

"I'm a little surprised you watched, to be honest. Figured you'd think it was along the lines of Sit Up Britain."

He laughed. "I was expecting that," he said, "but wanted to watch anyway. To support you."

"I do appreciate it."

After a pause, he said, "Actually, I used to watch Sit Up Britain regularly, too."

"Ah," she said, with a light laugh. "Well, that does explain how you happened to see the Lewisham fiasco. Though that…" She trailed off.

"What?"

"Nothing, never mind."

"Tell me."

"That was my first time on camera. What possessed you to turn it on that day, of all days?"

He did not quite know how to respond; the truth was he had tuned in every chance he could in the hopes she would be on camera, but given their current situations, it hardly seemed productive to say so. "Sheer luck," he said. "Anyhow, there was no trace of Lewisham today. Brilliantly done." He heard a key in the door; undoubtedly Mary. "I should go. We'll talk soon."

"Okay," she said. "Thanks for the kind words. Bye."

"Goodbye." He disconnected the call.

He slipped his mobile into his pocket just as the door swung open. "Hi," Mary said, startled by his presence in the foyer. "You just in, too? I didn't see you."

"No, I came home earlier but then came up from the kitchen when Ben came home. How was your day?"

She looked pleased but weary. "_Finally_ have the records sorted from the disaster who had this position before I did. But, nothing worth doing right is easy."

"I'm glad. Good for you," he said supportively with a smile. "Why don't you sit and relax before dinner?"

"I think I may just do that," she said. "Maybe even have a little wine."

"Scandalous," said Mark with a little laugh.

She ascended the stairs up to their bedroom, passing Lynn on her way down. As she got to the foyer, she glanced back over her shoulder and once she verified that Mary had disappeared, she asked Mark in a quiet tone, "You know you can trust me not to say anything about your wanting to watch the programme."

At this he was torn. There was no reason why, as an ex and a platonic friend, he should feel any guilt about watching the show, but he had already kept his knowledge of it a secret. "If you don't mind," he said at last. "I don't want her to get the wrong idea."

Lynn nodded. "Understood."

Mark then said, "I hope that _you_ don't have the wrong idea."

"Of course not," she said, though with the little smirk she gave, he wondered if she was taking the piss.

He also wondered what his true motives really were, the ones that rested beneath the things he told himself about wanting to bring her back into his life as nothing more than the mother of his son's friend. It was a pretty lie, he realised, one that helped to assuage his guilt, because he did wish for more than that.

…

It wasn't frequent that Mary was home before Mark was, but a couple of days later, she was. He knew she was angry, though it was difficult to tell by her expression. She rarely let how she was feeling be known.

Without preamble she spoke in simmering, subdued tones. "You've embarrassed me, Mark, and I'm very upset."

Instinctively he knew what this must have been about, but he said, "Whatever it is I've done, know I never intended—"

"I know you never intended to embarrass me," she interrupted. "You also never intended to let me know Bridget was on the telly. I had to find out at lunch with my colleague Judith, who brought along her friend, who asked me if I liked the show. Her _friend_. _Bridget_."

There was nothing he could do but apologise, though he ran through explanations in his head to try to explain his reasoning; as he did, he realised they sounded more like excuses. At last he took in a deep breath and said simply, "I'm sorry."

"That's all." She stared at him. "Sorry for not telling me, or sorry I found out?"

He sighed and thought, _Damned if you do; damned if you don't._ "I was trying not to make excuses. I should have told you because it's not really a big deal—and not saying anything makes it seem like it is."

"Yes it does," she snapped.

"I said I was sorry." He pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing closed his eyes. "I was watching to support a friend. Nothing more."

"And you'll keep watching?"

"I'd like to," he said. "It's about literature. Books. Contemporary authors and discussions. You might even like it."

She did not reply, and with the continued expression of confusion, even astonishment on her face, Mark was sure she was going to answer at all—but then Ben arrived home, the conversation stopped and did not seem likely to start again.

Dinner was pleasant—they never let Ben know when they were having a disagreement, because they didn't want to worry or upset him—at least until he piped up with an unwanted reminder of said disagreement:

"Hey, you know what? Brian told me his mum's on the telly! Isn't that cool?"

"Yes," said Mary in a tone that Mark could not quite discern. "Very much so."

Ben brought his little brows together. "You okay, Mummy?"

She nodded, but glanced to Mark. "I'm fine. A little headache. I just… I'm through with dinner. I need to have a lie down." She took the cloth napkin from her lap and set it on the table next to her plate, then stood and placed a kiss on the top of Ben's head. To Mark she said, "You can look after him, can't you?"

"Of course," he said. "I'll come look after you later."

"There's no need. I'll be fine."

Mary was not the sort of woman who said one thing but meant another. In this instance, however, Mark wondered if she truly did not want to discuss it further.

He decided to give her the distance she seemed to want, and did not see her again until they prepared for bed.

"Mary," he said tentatively.

"Mark, it's all right," she said quietly. "I overreacted, and I'm sorry. You watched a programme on the telly. And you didn't tell me because you thought I might react, well, like this." She offered a smile. "Good night."

"Good night," he said, feeling a bit perplexed, but pleased it might not turn into a long-standing row.

It became apparent, however, that despite her words, things were not quite all right. All through the weekend, she treated him to the cold shoulder: outwardly cordial and pleasant, but seemingly only talked to him when necessary. It was frustrating in the extreme for Mark, who did not know how to make things right; he and Mary had rarely, if ever, had arguments. He thought back to, well, the time with Bridget when things were good—where a row usually burnt as bright as a supernova with heated, passionate emotion, eventually leading to making up with equal passion in bed. Rows with Bridget had a finite start, middle, and end. This uncertainty was so different, so difficult.

Mark was certain that Bridget coming by to drop Brian off for a play date on Sunday afternoon did not help matters with Mary at all, though he was pleased as always to see her, pleased at how easy it had been to pick up a friendship again with her, how easy it was to talk to her. He was not surprised, but in retrospect, he should have been a little more judicious in showing his pleasure.

…

_End of October_

Wednesdays became a treat in Mark's week. He would go home early, enjoy the peace and quiet, and indulge in watching Bridget's programme. The first two were good but the programme as a whole was obviously still finding its legs. After that, however, it hit its stride; by the end of October, Bridget—and the programme by extension—exuded an easy confidence while still being entertaining, the whole of which quite honestly looked very good on her.

At the end of this latest show, one that was all about the evolution of suspense novels through the ages due to the programme's proximity to Halloween, he sat back, stretched his arms up with a grin, then reached to switch off the telly when he realised he was not alone in the room.

"You're right," said Mary, who stood at the threshold of the room, leaning against it. "It is very good." There was a soft quality to her eyes, to her expression, that he was unused to seeing from her. He hadn't the faintest idea what it could have meant.

He rose from his seat on the sofa, speaking tentatively. "I'm sure she would love to hear you say so."

"Pass it on for me, will you?"

He wasn't sure why she asked him to do so when they had equal opportunity, but he said, "Certainly." After a moment of awkward silence, he asked, "Can I help get dinner on the table?"

"It's all right, I've got it handled," she said. "I'll just change out of this suit—you can take Ben off of Lynn's hand when they get here."

She slipped away without another word, and it wasn't until after Ben was back from school that he wondered what had brought her home early to begin with.

…

"I was wondering if you could meet me for lunch. I have a proposition."

Mark was not entirely proud of the first thing that came to his mind when Bridget called him out of the blue. "Oh?" he asked, hoping for a little more information before committing to anything.

"Yes," she said. "For my programme. I'd like to devote one episode to books about social justice and that sort of thing. You were the first person to come to mind. What do you think?"

He was flattered, and his first reaction was to say yes with no further questions asked, but asked instead, "How helpful can I be, though? I'm no expert on fiction. That's your area."

"It's not all about fiction," she said. "There are biographies to consider as well as non-fiction. You would be marvellous at helping to contextualise them."

"Well, I don't know about _that_," he said with a smile in full recognition that his ego was puffed up beyond belief, "but I'm certainly open to having lunch to talk more about it."

"Great." There was a pause. "It feels a bit odd and pretentious to ask you to meet me at The Ivy, but, well. Business lunch."

He chuckled. "What time?"

"Half noon sound okay?"

He had no appointments until three, and even that could be cancelled if necessary. "Perfect. I'll see you there."

For the rest of his morning, he was distracted, to say in the least. He left forty-five minutes before the arranged time so to be sure he was not late, even though he was certain she would be, as she always was. And he was right.

He was seated at a table with a glass of red wine, browsing the menu when Bridget came to the table. "Sorry I'm late," she said, sitting down.

He didn't look up but felt a smirk touch his lips. "Yes." He set the menu down and looked at his watch. "Only twenty minutes though. I guess that's an improvement." Then he looked at her and smiled; she looked gorgeous in her tailored red suit and white silk blouse; her hair was pulled back into a decorative barrette; tiny little pearl drop earrings hung from her ears.

"Taking the piss," she teased; she was smiling too. She then sighed. "I almost don't want to talk about the programme, but… ah well. We don't have to dive right into it, I guess." She reached for the wine list.

"Ah," he said. "I took the liberty of ordering a glass of chardonnay for you. Presuming your habits haven't changed so very much."

She smiled again, a little more softly this time. "Not so much," she said, "though in years past it might have been a bottle, not merely a glass."

At this he chuckled.

They ordered, then talked a little about the boys, about the next planned play date the following weekend; Mark asked how Daniel was doing, and she told him he was doing well, though seemed perplexed that Mark would ask.

"And how about Mary?" Bridget asked. "How is she?"

Mark looked down. "She's well," he said. "She asked me to tell you she thought your show was very good."

"Oh, she did see it."

"Yes," he said. "Yesterday."

"Ah. I, er. Sorry."

"What for?"

"For asking her about it when it first came on. I thought for sure you'd've told her. Did I step in it, cause you problems?"

He shrugged. "A little, but it's all right. She… ah, but it's not important."

"What, Mark?" she asked, resting her hand on the shirt sleeve at his wrist.

He looked up again, met her blue eyes, and couldn't not tell her. "I didn't say anything because I didn't want her feeling… jealous. I mean, I didn't want her thinking I was watching because… well, just because of our past. And of course it was stupid on my part because not saying anything caused probably more of a disagreement."

"Hm, yes," she said. "Definitely a no-win situation, even if you aren't doing a thing wrong."

"I'm glad you understand," he said with a sigh.

The food arrived, and they ate in relative silence; when they finished eating, they began to talk about the programme in earnest. She had some great ideas about the episode, and as she enumerated some of the works she was already considering—books by the Dalai Lama and Betty Friedan amongst them—there was one book that immediately came to Mark's mind.

"_This Child Will Be Great_," he said. She looked confused. He chuckled, then explained, "It's a book by the first female president in Africa. Liberia, to be precise."

"Ooo," she said, reaching for her tablet computer. "And who's that by?"

"Ellen Johnson Sirleaf," he said.

"Oh, very good," she said. "I'll have to read it."

"And John Locke."

"Pardon?"

"He wrote _Two Treatises of Government_ in 1690, thought to be the spiritual ancestor of the American Declaration of Independence and the UN's Universal Declaration of Human Rights, among others."

"Oh, that's good to know," she said, typing into her tablet. "Probably would make a good introduction piece." She stopped typing for a moment. "Oh. I just had a _brilliant_ idea. You should come on."

"On the programme?" he asked.

"Yes!" she said. "We can talk about books together."

"Ah," he said, then added in a mock-serious tone, "so it's not just so you don't have to read them."

She pursed her lips, furrowed her brows. "I will so read them," she said. "Though that is a great idea, you doing the intro on these—" She pointed. "—since you know them so well."

"I'm sorry I said anything," he joked. "I'm sure you know _exactly_ where Liberia is."

At this she flashed another smile then started to giggle. "I will never live that down, will I?"

"Nope," he said.

She paid the bill with the company credit card—"We did talk business," she reminded—then they headed out the door. "Shall I give you a lift back to your office?" he asked, shoving his hands into the pockets of his overcoat.

"I was going to grab a minicab, but if it's not too much trouble…"

"I wouldn't have offered if it were," he said.

Once they were on the road and she'd instructed him as to the location of the building, she said, "You know, you never said yes or no."

He felt his jaw tighten. If he did this, he would most certainly have to run it past Mary, as this was much more than passively watching the programme from the comfort of their sofa. "May I give you an answer later? I should probably… you know."

She nodded. "Silly of me. I understand, and that's fine."

"Good. Great."

The ride seemed to take no time at all; he found a spot along the kerb at which he could pause for a moment. "Don't bother getting the door," she said warmly. "You'll get shouted at by the doorman if you get out."

"All right," he said. "Well, it was nice. This was nice."

"It rather was," she said; he swore he saw some of the old tenderness in her eyes, tenderness towards him, but he knew he was deluding himself. "Well. Off I go, then."

"Goodb—"

As he spoke, she leant forward and placed a light kiss in his cheek just to the side of his lips. She drew back. "Bye."

He blinked in astonishment.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said, her cheeks flashing crimson. "Was almost a habit, that, wasn't it?"

"It's… all right," he said, willing himself to recover his composure. "I'll try to get you an answer by tomorrow at the latest."

"Okay," she said. "Bye."

In the matter of a moment, she was up and out of the car, and with the light tap on a horn by someone waiting to take the spot, he snapped back to the present, put the car into gear and drove off back towards Inns of Court to try to concentrate on the remainder of his day, his three o'clock appointment and beyond.

…

The one thing Mark was not particularly looking forward to doing loomed large after dinner. He told Mary—warned her, almost—that he had something he needed to discuss with her. She had looked him directly in the eye with brows drawn together, nodded and said, "Of course."

Dinner found Ben at his most talkative; he went on at length about the school day, about the art project that he and Brian had worked on together, and how it had won praise from the teacher.

"I cannot wait to see it," said Mary with a bright smile and oddly hollow eyes. "Now if you're all finished, take your plate to the counter and one of us will rinse it for you."

"Okay."

As he completed this task, Mary called to him, "Now you are excused from table."

"Thanks." Ben grinned. "Can I watch the Bugs Bunny disc?"

"It's 'May I watch'," she corrected. "And yes, you may."

"Thanks, Mum," he said, then raced up the stairs to the main floor.

Silently they both rose from the table, gathered up the remaining plates and cups and took them to the sink to then load the dishwasher.

"So," Mark said. "I've been asked to consult on… on Bridget's programme. They're doing an episode on books about social justice." He cleared his throat. "And there's a suggestion that I might possibly appear on the programme, too."

The dish slipped from her fingers and made a loud clink as it dropped down onto another plate on the counter. "Oh," she said, turning her head to meet his gaze. "And what answer did you give?"

"Nothing yet," he said. "I wanted to talk to you first."

"Ah." She picked the plate up again, then stacked it into the dishwasher. "Well… I appreciate your asking me, so thank you. Is this something you want to do?"

"Yes, very much. I can talk about President Sirleaf and her book. And John Locke."

She was watching him as if she were studying his features for the first time. "If you really want to do it, I see no reason why I shouldn't agree."

He smiled. "Thank you."

"When does it air?"

"That I don't know," he said. "I was only approached today."

"By whom?"

"Pardon?"

"Who approached you about this?"

"Well, Bridget, of course," he said. "It's her programme. As soon as I know, I'll tell you. But I'll probably need to start preparing right away."

She nodded. "Of course," she said. Her voice had a strange, whispery quality to it. "I'm looking forward to seeing the result."

"You're really okay with my doing this?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, decisiveness and strength back in her tone. "Now why don't you go and see if Ben needs help with the disc. Remember the time he tried putting it in upside-down?"

Mark chuckled. "Oh, yes… poor kid, so frustrated."

It was fortunate that Mark went up when he did, because he had indeed put the disc in upside-down. With a chuckle he flipped it over, saying, "Remember, the side with Bugs Bunny faces up."

"Sorry," Ben said.

"It's all right," he said, pulling Ben into a quick hug. "Not the end of the world, and I'm always happy to help."

"I know," he said. He looked especially thoughtful; Mark felt he might speak again, and he did. "Dad, can I ask you something?"

"Of course you may," he said.

"When I go to see Brian, his mum and dad like to laugh and play with us and joke and stuff. Why don't you and Mum do that?"

It was meant as an innocent question; he knew Ben meant nothing by it, but it still cut him to the quick to have their apparent coolness pointed out so astutely. "Well, there are different kinds of people in the world, Ben," he said. "Your mum and I just…" He trailed off when he realised it was not the right tack to take, and began again. "Would you like me or Mum to play with you when Brian comes over? We always thought you and your friend wanted to play together, on your own."

"I wouldn't mind, not at all," he said, then amended, "but maybe not all the time, though. You'd probably get bored with the train after a while."

"Ben," he said. "Did you forget that your dad had a set when he was your age?"

He grinned sheepishly. "Yeah."

"Yeah," Mark echoed. He then thought more about what Ben said, thought maybe he could stand a little more time engaging with him. "So why don't we sit down and watch some Bugs Bunny together?"

Ben's smile was worth ten Hope Diamonds; he hopped up onto the sofa, Mark sat beside him with the remote, and pressed play. For the next hour or so they enjoyed the best of the best in animated silliness. They laughed a lot together, and occasionally Mark had to explain what a joke meant, but rather than detract from the enjoyment, it only brought them further together. _Even if it does make me feel a thousand years old_, he thought.

"Hi Mum."

Mark turned his head to see Mary standing there, watching them, looking almost irritated, but offered Ben a smile. "Hi, Ben."

"We're watching cartoons," he said. "Wanna watch?"

"Oh, I can't, darling. I'm sorry. I'm in the middle of something else," she said. "You boys have fun." With that she left.

Ben was not sophisticated enough to keep rein on his features, and his disappointment was obvious. "Bet Brian's mum would watch Bugs Bunny with him," he said with a pout.

"Now, now, don't say that about your mum," Mark chided gently, though secretly, he agreed; in fact, she would enjoy it as much as they had, if not more.


	3. Chapter 3

**Mr & Mrs Darcy**

By S. Faith, © 2013

Words: 30,042

Rating: M / R

Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 3. **

_Wednesday, 5 November_

Despite Bonfire Night being midweek, Ben had begged and pleaded to go to Brian's for festivities there; Brian had asked him before Bridget had called asking the same, so there was really no getting around saying no.

"I'm really sorry I even mentioned it to Brian before asking you directly," she said. "You'd think I'd know better by now, eh? Well, I hope you and Mary can make it."

"We'd better," he said, "unless I want to risk being The Worst Dad In the History of Ever."

This elicited a laugh. "My friends will be over too. Jude's got her little one—did I tell you, she and Richard adopted? Sweetest little girl."

"No, you didn't," he said with a smile. "That's wonderful—I'm happy for them." He grinned, cradling the phone under his chin while he popped an email off in response to a case. "And how about Sharon? Tom? Oh God… Constance must be ten by now, right?"

"Twelve," said Bridget. "Hard to believe."

Mark sat back in his chair. "Wow," he said. "Seems only she was just a wee girl… I'm sure she doesn't remember me."

"She was rather young the last time you saw her. Anyway, they'll all be there tomorrow night, so I hope you will be, too."

"I'll give a tentative yes," he said, "since I doubt Mary wants to disappoint Ben, either." He then asked, "Shall we bring anything?"

"Um, we're doing a buffet dinner, so whatever you might want to contribute towards drinking," she said. "Obviously, with the children, it's all in moderation, but…"

"I understand," he said with a chuckle.

"About half seven?"

"Hope to see you then."

Mary of course did not want to say no, though she did not seem overly enthusiastic about going, either. "The only other person I'll know beside you is Judith."

"And Bridget, Daniel, and Brian," he reminded.

"Well, yes, but…"

"You can at least talk to Jude out of the context of work," he said. "She has a little girl, adopted. You have that in common—being working mothers."

"I suppose," she said. "I have heard a lot about her little girl. Adopted out of an orphanage in Mongolia while still a toddler. Emma, they call her. Bright little thing."

"Well, you can meet her at last."

Mary offered a smile. "That sounds lovely."

"It'll be a nice time," he said.

Mark picked up some wine—white and red—on his way home from work. Once Lynn came home with Ben, Mark got his son changed into play clothes before getting him into the car for the quick ride to Bridget's house.

"_Four_ bottles of wine?" Mary asked as they walked up to the front door, Mark with carrier bags in hand; Ben raced ahead to the door to knock.

"It's a party," he said. "It isn't as if it's all just for you and me."

The door swung wide and they were greeted by Bridget with a bright smile. "Hi," she said, stepping side to allow them in. "That's the thing about hosting a party—you can't be late."

Mark grinned, handing her a carrier bag. "Some wine."

"'Some wine' indeed. Goodness. Thank you."

"White's probably still chilled."

"Terrific," she said. Still smiling, she looked at Mary. "Nice to see you again."

"Nice to see you too," Mary replied. "Are we the first to arrive?"

She pointed to the garden; only then did Mark realise Ben had vanished. "They're out back. Nice that it's so unseasonably warm. We'll be eating soon."

"Would you like some wine?" he asked Mary. "I'll just drop this to the kitchen and I can pour, if you like."

He often asked Mary if she wanted wine, and she always declined, but tonight she would surprise him. "I would love some. Thank you. Some of the burgundy, please. I'll go find Ben in the garden."

"Okay," he said.

He followed Bridget to the kitchen; she unloaded one bottle of the white wine into the fridge as Mark opened the red. Without his even asking she pulled down two red wineglasses and a white wineglass for herself, then picked up the corkscrew and opened one of the bottles of white.

"I'm glad you came," she said, glancing up to him before taking a sip. "I wasn't sure that you would, Ben notwithstanding."

"Why's that?"

Her gaze flicked to the door and her voice dropped down. "I don't get the impression that Mary cares for my company."

"That's absurd," he said, even as he realised it might actually be true.

Bridget gave him a look that said she did not buy it for a second. "Well, never mind. Come on and bring your wife her wine."

When they got to the garden he found an array of familiar faces he hadn't seen in some time, and he took great pleasure in saying hello to each of them: Tom (who had brought a man who looked vaguely familiar—then the name, Jerome, popped in his head like a flash), Sharon, Simon, Jude, Richard, Magda and Jeremy. In the garden beyond, a group of children ran around with Ben and Brian, and as he watched he realised he could figure out each and every child's name: the tallest girl must have been twelve-year-old Constance; the taller boys could only be her brothers, Harry and Jack, who must have been eleven and ten respectively; and the smallest of the lot, a little raven-haired girl who must have been Emma.

To the side of the stone patio was a series of five buffet trays with chafing fuel beneath each one to keep them warm. "Daniel spent the afternoon grilling," Bridget said. "Seems a bit mad for November, but it's been gorgeous."

"I'll bet it's delicious," he said.

"Ah. Darce and Bridge, back from the kitchen with the wine," Daniel said, rising from the chair. "I think this means it's time to eat."

One by one they went to the buffet to pick out a burger, a side of chicken, a skewer of roasted vegetables or some combination thereof. As they ate—and ensured the children ate, too—Mark learnt that the chafing pans were borrowed from the station; with a laugh, Bridget explained that no one even knew whose they were or why the station had them, but no one objected to the loan. "Mind you, trying to find the fuel canisters in November was quite trying," Bridget added. "But Daniel, ever resourceful…"

Daniel bent slightly at the waist as if to bow.

As the sky darkened and the evening progressed, Mark took a post by the covered copper fire pit at the far end of the stone patio; ostensibly it was to make sure the children didn't burn themselves, but in reality wanting to get away from the chatter, away from the waves of nostalgia washing over him from the highest point of his relationship with Bridget. In some ways it would have been easier with just the four adults and two children; the group assembled as it was echoed all too loudly how things might have been.

"Look at you, engaged in traditional party mode."

He turned and saw Bridget heading towards him, a little smile playing on her lips. "Just making sure the children don't get hurt."

"A likely story," she said, standing beside him. "In case you hadn't noticed, Constance is perfectly capable of wrangling the small ones." He supposed she had a point. She spoke again, this time in a quieter voice. "Look, I don't want to alarm you, but… it's Mary."

He turned to look. The last he'd seen her, she'd seemed to have loosened up a little with her glass of wine, and had engaged in conversation with Jude and Richard. "Why? What's wrong?"

"I get the impression she doesn't drink wine often. Or anything alcoholic, really." Bridget looked really concerned, which heightened his own. "She's had three glasses now and… she seems really, really down."

"Oh, boy," he said. He was grateful that he'd only had the one glass, and it had long since gone out of his system—and felt very guilty that he had not been more attentive. "Did you hear her say anything in particular?"

She shook her head. "She didn't say much at all. I mean, apart from a very short conversation with Jude about Emma."

He sighed. "Thanks."

"Of course. Oh." She grabbed his upper arm, taking hold of his jumper. "Don't beat yourself up. She could just as easily have come over here to you."

He looked down to her, her face half-bathed in the firelight, and he smiled. "I appreciate that."

Bridget nodded, then kept walking towards where the kids were running around in circles with glow sticks, making pretty streaks of colour against the dark of night; quickly she escaped the glow of the fire and become little more than a silhouette.

He, on the other hand, veered in the opposite direction and approached the house; he was able to locate Mary relatively quickly, sitting in the corner with Magda, Jeremy, Jude and Sharon. He was a little surprised that she had not gotten into conversation with Magda, but only a little. The situation that had filled him with nostalgia probably was strange for her to handle without context.

"Hey," he said as he approached the group, broke into a lull in conversation, looking directly at Mary. "Everything okay?"

She set her now-empty wine glass down, nodding in an almost exaggerated fashion, then looked up to him. "Everything's just peachy," she said, slurring her words a bit.

"I was thinking… Ben's got school, so we should get going." It was barely nine in the evening, but he wanted to spare her the embarrassment of pointing out the obvious: that she was pissed.

"I'll get 'im," said Mary, standing, weaving a bit as she did.

"No need." It was Bridget, returning with Ben. "Here you are."

"Thank you," Mark said, then held out his hand towards his wife. "Come on. Let's get your things."

"Fine," she said gruffly, though took his hand.

"I'm glad you made it," said Daniel, which was followed up by "Yes, very nice to see you again" and "It's been far too long" and other statements of regret in not having seen each other in so many years.

Mary had only brought a handbag and the cardigan she was wearing, so he led her around the shoulders and followed Bridget, still holding Ben's hand, to the front door, picking up the handbag along the way.

"I'm sorry," said Mary, whose eyes were now glossy with tears.

"It's all right," Bridget said softly.

"Come on," said Mark. "Off to the car."

"Okay."

He got Mary settled into the front seat, Ben in the back, then stood upright. Bridget was still there. "Thanks."

She nodded. "No problem."

The car ride home was fairly quiet; Ben dozed almost immediately to sleep and when Mary did speak it was only to say, more than once, "I'm sorry." Mark patted her hand and told her every time that it was all right.

It was a bit of a challenge both carrying a sleeping Ben and shepherding a woozy, morose Mary from the house into the car, but he did it; once inside, he helped both of them up the stairs, directed her towards their bedroom, then took Ben to change him into his pyjamas then tuck him in.

When he returned to his own bedroom, Mary was lying on her pillow, having sunk sideways from a sitting position and now apparently asleep; the tell-tale sign of a few shed tears darkened the pillow next to her. He shook her shoulder and called her name, but she did not rouse. He decided to let her be; he lifted her legs to the bed and pulled the turned-down sheets over her.

Mark had a difficult time sleeping that evening, but when the morning came, he found Mary had already awakened and was gone from the bed. He expected to find her in the kitchen nursing some coffee (which she rarely even drank, but then again, she was rarely if ever hung over), but she had, in fact, gone from the house. There was a note left on the breakfast nook to let him know she had a big early morning meeting and had to go before he'd awakened.

Strangely there was no mention of the party the night before or of her having a bit too much wine; not that he cared, not that he thought Bridget or her friends thought less of her (after all, they had all had many of their own drunken nights much worse than that), but for her to not mention it struck him as unusual. He hoped he could talk to her at some point during the day, ensure she was all right, but every time he rang her phone that morning—desk or mobile—he got no response.

He supposed she could just be in a very long meeting, but it still seemed very odd—and the day would get odder still. He went out into the grey chill of the afternoon to pick up a sandwich and a coffee to read over his briefs—the glamorous life of a high-profile barrister, he mused—when he saw something that literally stopped him where he stood:

Sitting at a window seat in a bistro across the street was Daniel, and across the table from him was a beautiful woman with _café au lait_ skin, long, dark curled hair pulled back into a pony tail, and a bright, beaming smile. That he was having lunch with this woman was not the surprise; it was that he was holding her hand, bringing it to his lips to kiss the back.

Against his better judgment, Mark went into the bistro and marched up to Daniel's table. The woman noticed him first, looked up, scowled. "Daniel," she said; from this closer distance, Mark could see she was not as young as he'd originally thought, could see the stray greys in her dark hair, the smattering of subtle laugh lines around her coal-dark eyes.

Daniel looked up, smiled, then frowned at seeing Mark's expression. "Mark. What can I do for you?"

"You can tell me what the hell you're doing," he said, trying to keep his tone quiet, but feeling too indignant on Bridget's behalf. "Are you out of your mind?"

"Sorry, I don't follow," said Daniel. He looked utterly bewildered.

"What about Bridget?" Mark asked.

"What about her?" Daniel asked. "She and Jennifer get along very well." Jennifer, his lunch companion, nodded.

Too dumbfounded to continue, Mark gritted his teeth to prevent saying something he'd regret; he took a step back, then another, then turned and walked back towards his building, clenching the paper carrier bag with a bit more force than required. Upon returning to his office, he tried to resume his work, eating a lunch he could barely taste, but his heart just wasn't in it; he wondered how he was going to bring this up with Bridget.

He felt he had a moral duty to do so.

As Mark packed his attaché in preparation to leave for the day, his mobile rang. He palmed the phone, and his heart did a little leap: it was Bridget.

"Mark Darcy speaking," he said as he answered.

"I know you know it's me calling," she said in obvious amusement, "and I know it's you I'm calling. You don't have to answer like that."

"Habit, I guess," he said with a chuckle, momentarily forgetting the reason why he wanted to speak to her. "Everything okay?"

"Oh, yes, it's fine, but your wife seems to have left her mobile behind last night."

It explained why she didn't pick up that morning. "Oh, sorry."

"I'm sure it wasn't done on purpose," she said. "Anyway, I was wondering if I could bring it by, to the house, or—"

"Do you have time for a quick drink, instead?" he asked.

"Um, sure," she said. "Daniel's picking Brian up from school, anyway." There was a long pause. "Is everything okay?"

"I just wanted to talk to you, that's all."

"Sounds serious," she said.

"I'm sure it's nothing," he said, though didn't honestly feel it. "Where shall we meet?"

"Mmm, how about The Marylebone?"

"That sounds fine. See you at six?"

He glanced to his watch; forty-five minutes away. "Yes. See you then."

Mark knew that Mary would not be home, and she didn't have her mobile anyway; he instead rang up Lynn and told her that he had to take care of a few things before he came home.

She didn't respond right away, then offered a confused, "All right."

"I can't reach Mary," he explained, "or I would have just rung her directly."

"Oh, I understand," she said. "Hope everything goes quickly. Dinner will be waiting, I'm sure."

"I know. I'll be as quick as I can."

He made it to the bar with time to spare, and only hoped that Bridget would make it reasonably on time. He waited until six to order his gin and tonic, nursed it slowly. With her hair loose about her shoulders, she came into the place at about ten past the hour, looking a bit day-weary but otherwise sharp in her overcoat; through the unbuttoned front he could see a pale blue blouse and black skirt with those high black boots she always liked to—

"Sorry I'm late," she said tiredly.

He chuckled, snapping himself from his train of thought. "I figured you probably would be."

"I meant to be early. Well, earlier than my usual lateness."

After she ordered herself a Bloody Mary, she slipped out of the overcoat then dug into her handbag. She then set down Mary's mobile beside his hand. "Before I forget, here's the mobile."

He reached for it—accidentally, or possibly not, brushing her fingers as he did—then slipped it into his suit breast pocket. "Thanks."

"So what's this drinks business all about? This seems so—" She giggled a little. "—secretive."

Despite his mulling about it earlier, he decided on the spot it was best to be direct. "I saw Daniel out for lunch today."

"Oh?"

Mark nodded, then took a sip of his cocktail. "I don't know how to break this to you, Bridget, but he was there with a woman, and they looked very intimate."

She didn't say anything, and when he turned to look at her he expected betrayal, shock… not confusion. "Someone besides Jennifer, you mean?" she asked at last.

"Yes… No… I mean, yes, it was someone called Jennifer; no, not someone else," Mark said. "Wait a minute. What is going on? How do you know about this?"

She laughed. "Why wouldn't I know? He's been seeing her for almost a year; she comes over a lot, Brian adores her and she's not a brainless…" She trailed off, staring at him in disbelief. "Mark, did you think… he was cheating on me?"

"He isn't?"

"No!" she said, half-exasperation, half-amusement.

"So, you aren't married to Daniel?"

She laughed. "No."

"And you never were?"

"No. Mark. This feels like twenty questions," she said.

"I'm sorry, I… just assumed you were," Mark said, "because you're living together."

"No, we're not," she said. "The house is semi-detached. I live on one side, Daniel on the other. We've put in a pass-through, and Brian has a room in both."

He thought back to the house, the double front doors on the porch… he had never given a thought to who lived in the other half. "Oh," he said stupidly.

"How did you not know—oh," she said abruptly. "I assumed she'd told you."

"What?"

Bridget paused to sip her drink. "The day of the Dulwich garden party, when you and Daniel went off to talk to that old teacher of yours, she asked if Daniel and I were together, and I told her no. I assumed she would have said something since it was practically the only thing we talked about."

"She didn't."

Bridget smiled, patting his hand. "Well, no harm, no foul," she said, stirring the half-imbibed cocktail with the celery stick. She then cast a sideways glance towards him. "I do appreciate your looking out for me, though."

Mark focused on responding; his head was in a whirl trying to process this new information. "Anytime," he said.

Mark paid the bar tab since he had invited her—"Next one is on me," Bridget said—and they left. He asked if she needed a lift and she didn't; for that he was secretly grateful, because he would have been poor company. Daniel and Bridget not married? How had he never come to hear this from his mother? It must have been that they didn't want him to know; there did not seem to be any other logical explanation.

Unless they _all_ thought he already knew.

He made it home in time for dinner. Neither Ben nor Mary had any idea of the bombshell that had struck and scattered him to bits inside; he tried earnestly to keep the mask of normalcy in place. He was so distracted by his own thoughts, though, that he completely forgot to ask Mary about the night before, how she felt today, until he was in bed with the light off. It was probably for the best, as he was in no frame of mind to be a sympathetic husband—and he comforted himself with the fact that if something was really wrong, she'd tell him. She had never been shy about doing so in the past.

…

_A week after Bonfire Night_

Circumstances seemed to align and converge in a most unusual way. The following week Mark got a call about his involvement with Bridget's show, though it took him an interminable amount of time to determine who it was that was actually calling, since he was greeted with a lilting, sing-songy voice that turned every sentence into a question, which utterly perplexed him:

"Hello, Mr Darcy? This is Patchouli, right? From Cinnamon Studios? I'm calling because Bridget's busy taping the book show?"

"Oh, yes," he said, remembering at last the name of the production company for which Bridget worked. "Is this about the… book show?"

"Yeah, right? Can you be available this Saturday for a production meeting?"

"Saturday? Yes, I think that's fine," said Mark, glancing to his calendar; the only thing he saw was a pencilled-in play date for Ben and Brian at the house—which allowed his mind to wander, albeit briefly, to the weekend before. "Any particular time?"

"Like, all day, I think? You could ask Bridget?"

"I will."

"Great, okay? I've got you down?"

"Thank you… Patchouli." He put down the phone, wondering how on God's green earth that woman was working as a PA.

_The weekend_, he thought. His mind wandered again to the day in the house, Bridget's, with the four of them—Ben, Brian, Bridget and himself—playing all Saturday afternoon together; five, if he were to count Valmont the cat. He hadn't intended on staying, but Daniel had to go for the day, and the boys had begged him to remain so that they could play Snakes and Ladders as teams. He'd phoned Mary to let her know of the change of plan.

"Oh," she'd said. "That's fine."

"You're sure?"

"Of course. Have fun."

They did have fun, evidenced by the fact he'd had to practically carry a drowsy, exhausted Ben from the house, to the car and home again for dinner.

With these thoughts fresh in mind, and the weekend only two short working days away, Mark planned to tell Mary of this weekend's change of plans the moment he got home—at the very least to ensure that the boys would have supervision—but Mary beat him to the proverbial punch by saying, "Mark, I'm taking Ben with me this weekend to visit my father."

"Oh," he said, stunned. "Is… everything okay?"

"Everything's fine," she said, though her appearance—weary, slightly ragged, with circles beneath her eyes—suggested otherwise.

"Your father's not ill, is he?"

"No, he's fine, it's just been a while since I've been to see him," she said. "He asked to see Ben, too."

Mark wondered about his own lack of inclusion in this visit. "All right."

She added quickly, "If you want to come as well, you can."

"Actually, I've got to work on the weekend."

"Oh," she said.

As she moved on to talk about dinner, Mark considered her simple, monosyllabic response, and the more he considered it, the more he'd swear that she seemed relieved.

After they ate, after he made sure Ben was tucked into bed, after Mary retired for the night, he went down to his office, closed the door, and dialled Bridget on the mobile. He hated the fact that he felt so, as Bridget had put it, secretive.

"Hey Mark," she said. "Glad you have time on Saturday, and sorry I couldn't call you myself."

He took back what he'd thought about Patchouli; despite the annoying speech patterns, she had efficiently done her job and had kept Bridget apprised of his response. "It's okay," he said. "I understand. I was ringing up to ask what time on Saturday."

"I could bring over Brian mid-morning, and we could head to my office from there."

"Oh, sorry, change of plan on that," he said, mentally smacking himself on the forehead. "Mary's taking Ben to see her father so the play date's off."

"That's fine… I think Daniel can rearrange his schedule." He heard her tapping on a keyboard. "How about you meet me at my office, we have lunch, spend the afternoon working, then… I don't know, you could come have dinner with Brian and me? That way, you don't have to eat on your own."

He smiled. "That sounds quite perfect," he said. "I'll bring lunch. Any preference?"

"Hmm," she said. "I'll leave it up to you. My tastes in food haven't changed that much."

"All right." He grinned; he knew exactly what to bring.


	4. Chapter 4

**Mr & Mrs Darcy**

By S. Faith, © 2013

Words: 30,042

Rating: M / R

Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 4. **

_Mid-November_

Mark's concentration and focus was elusive on Thursday and Friday. He was not even really sure why he felt Christmas-morning levels of anticipation for the work session in Bridget's office; he suspected it was just the opportunity to spend so much time with her alone, even for work, to get to know better the woman she had become in the five years or so they had fallen out of contact.

On Saturday morning he rose and, after making them breakfast, he saw Mary and Ben off for their drive to Birmingham. After dressing and grooming for the day he made a quick stop to pick up lunch (and a bottle of wine; he hardly cared that they were eating in her office), then went to her office building. Security had been informed of his impending arrival and so let him through without a fuss, though he did see the guard do a little double-take when he spotted that the carrier bag had a bottle of wine in it.

She had messaged him that her office was up on the tenth floor, so after a brief ride in a very posh lift he exited, then, after rounding a corner, found the first door on the right as instructed, on which there was a gold nameplate bearing the name BRIDGET JONES. He knocked on the door and waited for her to answer.

"Come on in," she called.

He was expecting a small office, with messy scattered papers on every surface, old coffee cups lined like toy soldiers on the desk, and takeaway bags piled around, but not in, the waste bin; he did not know why he expected this, perhaps bias from having seen the state of her old flat on many occasions. He was pleasantly surprised to be wrong. It was incredibly spacious; not just a desk (large, sturdy, made of dark wood and a relatively tidy desktop save the portable computer, a scatter of notes and a note pad, pens and the like), but off to the side, by a broad expanse of windows overlooking London, was a table with three chairs placed around it.

When she saw what he was carrying, she burst out into a laugh. "Pizza," she said. "Well, yes, I do still like a good pizza. And… oh my God, did you bring _wine_?"

He walked towards the table and set down the box. "I did," he said with a grin. "Even remembered a corkscrew."

"And I suppose there are wineglasses hiding in the carrier bag, as well?"

He froze. He had neglected to bring anything of the sort.

She chuckled again. "Don't worry," she said. "We could take turns glugging out of the bottle… kidding. I've got a bunch of coffee mugs from over the years. I'll just get a couple."

"Nice office," he said as she walked over to a filing cabinet, which she yanked open and pulled out a pair of Sit Up Britain mugs. This made the both of them chuckle. As she walked back towards where he stood at the table, two mugs by the handle in one hand and a stack of paper napkins in the other, he consciously realised for the first time that she was wearing a suit. It was not a boxy-shouldered, pinstriped ensemble trying desperately to be a man's suit, but unapologetically a woman's suit: well-tailored, single-breasted jacket and trousers in a blue so rich and dark that only the highlights shone cobalt. The blouse beneath was obviously silk, open in a deep V, and of a rich red-orange colour. A perfect complement.

The overall effect was more than polished, professional, sleek; it was bloody sexy.

He took in a deep breath and focused on what was above her shoulders: her hair, shining and blonde, pulled up and away from her face, twisted and secured (he saw as she turned her head to reach for something) with a hair stick that appeared to be made of silvery metal and topped with precious stones (carnelian?) that almost perfectly matched the silk top. _One tug_, he thought, _and her hair would just fall down around her shoulders_—

"Right out of the pizza box, then?" she asked, snapping him from his traitorous thoughts as she held up a slice of pepperoni pizza. "Blimey, I hope I don't get anything on this suit…"

"Just lean forward and be careful," he said, reaching for one for himself, but then he stopped. He hadn't opened the wine. That needed remedying.

As he'd done probably hundreds of times before, he skilfully pulled the cork, and after a moment poured the still-cold Chardonnay (again deferring to her tastes) into the coffee mugs. "So classy," she said with a wink, then she picked up her mug for a toast. "To social justice."

It took a few beats for him to realise that she was referring to the topic they were working on for her show, and hastily he lifted his mug to touch to hers with a dull clunk. The wine was not terribly expensive but still very good, and he gulped down more than he ought to have on the first go. He dove into the slice of pizza. It would not do to let the wine go to his head.

"Fuck."

His head snapped up to look at her; she was looking down at herself, and at the small spatter of sauce she'd dripped on the lower edge of the collar of her blouse.

"Sorry," she said. "I don't usually swear but…"

"I'm sure it'll be okay."

"No, no. Hold on." She stood and headed for the door—it registered then that she was wearing heeled shoes, not too high and invisible under the long trousers, but still rather evident from the way her backside looked—but stopped momentarily to say, "Shit. I don't have a spare blouse." Then she dashed into the hallway.

Within a few minutes she was back with the blouse in hand, a blush on her face… and nothing underneath her suit jacket, making for a very low front. "This is embarrassing," she said. "I think I got the stain out, but the shirt's wet. It's silk, it'll dry quickly, but…"

"It's all right," he said, but questioned his choice in lunch: "I feel like it's my fault, bringing messy pizza."

She waved her hand dismissively, then hung the shirt over the back of her chair to dry. She hand her hand just above the top jacket button, then sat down, took a napkin, turned away then turned back to reveal—

"Sort of a paper dickey," she said, then laughed; he had to admit it was pretty absurd to have a napkin tucked in place of what a shirt would cover, and he laughed too. It helped to break the tension. It certainly helped him not to think about the hint of lace he'd seen.

They managed to finish their lunch without further drip-related incident, though near the end she spilled a little wine on the paper napkin dickey and joked, "Wasn't exactly what I had in mind when I said the drinks would be on me the next time."

He laughed as she drew away the sodden napkin, but his gaze became intent as she leaned for another one. "You don't really have to do that with the napkin," he said, then reached up to meet her eyes. He tried offering a smile, tried not to sound like he was commanding her to keep her skin exposed by adding, "Sort of awkward to keep in place."

"Yeah…" She trailed off, placing her hand over her front again. "Maybe the shirt's dried. I'll check and either we can get to work." She stood, picked up her mug. He stood and brought his mug too, bringing the remains of the wine with him. She indicated he should sit in the chair on the opposite side of the desk, while she leaned over her chair with a heavy sigh, rubbing the fabric between her fingers, then let go of it, letting it settle back into place.

"No such luck," she said, rising to her full height again, standing in profile. Looking as good as she ever had to him.

With great effort he focused on getting the work done that they'd gotten together to do, but his eye kept meandering down—the wine through which they slowly made their way was not helping in that respect—and to make matters worse, when she caught him doing so, she looked more amused than scandalised.

He had made a point to re-read the books they had discussed a fortnight or so ago, specifically so they would be fresh in his mind, but he was not surprised to hear that she had not had a chance to read them herself. "I _did_ buy copies, though," she said, holding up a single index finger as if to make a point. "They're gathering dust on my bedside, but I'll _definitely_ read them next."

"Good place for them, because while extremely good, revolutionary even, the language of Locke book may just put you to sleep," he joked. She laughed, then poured more wine for them both.

They discussed—or rather, he talked—about the books; she made notes into the laptop, and he found himself pulling the chair around next to her to better see the screen, correcting her spelling, clarifying a point, even veering off into the odd political discussion. Talking to her, relaying his analysis of the books, pacing around and gesticulating as he did, he felt in top form, even if a little alcohol-impaired.

He couldn't deny, though, that being close to her was having an effect on him; it was as if something that had lain dormant was coming back to life, like what had worked so well between them was being revived, just like during the highest points of their long relationship. The old chemistry—not that it had ever truly died, not for him, anyway—was undergoing catalysis. He wanted to reach out and touch her, wanted to make sure that sitting beside her was not in fact a figment of his imagination.

"I think we've got some really good stuff here, Mark. Really good." She sat back in the chair, turned to look at him. He met her gaze. "I definitely think coming onto the programme—you should come onto the programme, I mean. Ugh. I can't even talk anymore. Maybe we need a little bit of a break." She lifted her arms over her head to stretch before realising that doing so was exposing her stomach. "Whoops." She clamped on the lower part of the jacket. "I suppose the blouse must be dry by now."

When she turned in her seat to check the blouse again, he asked, surprising himself, "May I ask a personal question?"

"Er," she said, twisted partially, trying to pull the blouse up. "I suppose."

He swallowed hard. "If you're not seeing Daniel, who are you seeing?"

She froze, lowering her head down, the blouse utterly forgotten; she didn't answer right away. "Boy, you weren't kidding." She sighed a little. "No one," she said—sparking in him a sort of… relief? Delight?—before she turned to face forward again. She looked a little sad. "Sort of pathetic, isn't it?"

"No," he said without hesitation. "It's not pathetic. It's better than being with someone—" He stopped, cutting himself off from saying the rest of what he was thinking: _for the wrong reasons. Someone you're not really in love with._ "Sorry. I shouldn't have asked. We're supposed to be working, and…"

"No, it's all right," she said. She picked up the mug, tilted it up, obviously draining it; by this point she was much less careful about shielding her exposed front, and he caught a glimpse of the lace again. "I know what you're saying, though. Really, I've got Brian, I've got friends who love me, and that's more than some have." She chuckled in a sort of half-hearted way. "Between Brian and my job, I've hardly got time, anyway—to find someone, go through that whole dating circus hell."

Having already veered into the personal, he didn't think it would hurt to ask, "So what did happen with Daniel?"

She shrugged. "We tried, but it didn't work," she said. "We both wanted to stay friends, stay close for Brian's sake, though, so that's why we moved into the house we did. It's been very convenient… but I think that whole thing…" She trailed off. "Ah, it's… never mind."

"What, Bridget?" he asked gently.

"I don't know," she said. He suspected she did know, and was proven right: "I think it scares men off. Daniel's handsome and confident, and funny… pretty sure they think I'm just biding my time until we're back together or something. And then there's Brian. He's a great kid, but we're a package deal, and some of them can't handle that."

"I'm sorry," he said.

"What have you to be sorry for?" she asked.

_You have no idea_, he thought. "Sorry for prying."

"If you were prying, I would've told you to bug off." She smiled. "We're friends, Mark." She patted where his hand rested on the arm of the chair in which he sat, and—

There was something about her hand on his, a trigger setting off the attraction, a reaction to the unbearable loneliness he felt, that caused him to launch himself forward, clumsily take the nape of her neck with his free hand, then place his lips, his mouth on hers. He heard and felt her gasp, but she did not push him away.

In fact, she pulled her chair closer. She kissed him back, and he relished in it, a pleasure too long denied to him.

The pads of her fingers on his face surprised him; the feel of her slipping closer, off of her chair, onto his lap, did nothing to quell the desire and everything to mute the voice in his head that told him this was a very, very, _very_ bad idea.

Then they were out of the chair, her hair was loosed and wild around her face, and she was against the desk; her suit jacket was suddenly unbuttoned and splayed to reveal her lace-clad bosom. He took the opportunity to lovingly press his lips to the divot between them, then his tongue. She arched, gasping again. He touched skin he had not touched in far too long; he cupped her breast, felt the hard point raised in response under his thumb, and pressed his hand hard against her. He then swept his hand along her stomach in a gentle yet assertive caress. He tugged at her trouser button much as she was tugging at his, and was glad when her trousers fell away.

She was already moaning by the time he slipped his hand over her hip to push her pants down—lace, matching the bra—and then pushed papers, pens, napkins, the empty coffee mugs, all of it, out of the way to lift and set her bottom on the edge of the desk.

All prelude concluded, he brought his fingers to trail along her abdomen, continuing further down between her thighs as he fiercely claimed her mouth again. She whimpered; he groaned, and wanted her with the desperation of ten men. He felt as if he were about to burst. He fumbled to hastily finish freeing himself of the inconvenience of his clothing, then barely paused before grasping beneath one of her knees, lifting her leg, hand against the small of her back, and driving forward.

It was as if no time had passed at all; he drove hard and fast, pressing her down against her desk, causing her to cry in his ear, to dig into his back with her nails, to breathe hotly against his neck, to arch fervently up into his thrusts. He had not forgotten a thing about the little cues in her movements and vocalisations, all of which indicated that he was striking the right chord… or stroking the right spot. He had forgotten how responsive, how passionate she was, and how much he loved making love with her.

To his surprise, she came first; her head lolled back, her lip caught between her teeth as she rocked and undulated around him, very nearly chanting a breathy _Oh_ with every thrust. He placed his mouth on her throat, kissing, sucking gently grazing, hearing the _Oh_s get ever so slightly louder—

His release was an equal surprise in its suddenness and strength; he went taut as he came, and he buried his face into her hair as he exhaled a long, slow, hot, breathy groan. Then he gulped air in again, kissed her cheek, then found her mouth and kissed it again.

"Mark."

It wasn't the fact that she said his name that brought him to full alertness; it was the way she said it. Tremulous, unsure, yet firm, even as she combed her fingernails through his hair. He knew what she was really saying.

_We shouldn't have done this._

Slowly he pushed himself up and back, away from her; at first she simply laid there with her eyes closed, breathing unsteadily, looking magnificent in nothing but the bra and suit jacket. Then she opened her eyes. They were shining with emotion as she pushed herself upright, assuming a sitting position that screamed modesty. Guilt.

"I'm s—"

"Don't say it," he commanded; it was his turn to hold up an index finger. "Don't apologise."

"But you're—"

"Shh," he said, placing said finger over her lips, plump and pink from kissing, from being kissed. "I'm _not_ sorry." As he said it, he realised he wasn't, not about sleeping with her again. He'd be sorry about hurting Mary when he told her—because he had to tell her—but this was exactly what had been missing from his life, what filled the empty spaces in his heart. His soul.

She then offered a half-hearted smile, but looked down. He held out his hand towards her. "Come on. Heaven forbid a cleaning crew should come by. We should, er…"

"Pull up our trousers."

He chuckled; she didn't. They each got dressed again, including her now-dried silk blouse. He located where her hair stick had rolled off to, and with a sheepish grin she twisted her hair up again, securing it with the ornament.

Otherwise, Bridget was curiously silent. There didn't seem to be a point to pretending they would be able to work again after that; a glance at the clock revealed it was nearly five in the afternoon, anyway.

She looked morose as they went down the lift, and was silent until they got to her car.

"Bridget," he said. "If anyone has the right to feel guilty, it's me. I initiated that. I'm the married one."

She stared at a spot in the distance, face turned slightly away from him. "But you don't. Feel guilty, I mean."

"On some level—I do. I mean, I took vows, and I broke them."

She hiccoughed a little sob. "Sorry, don't mean to cry."

Automatically he reached into his breast pocket for the square, and handed it to her. "I only mean that… we don't really have an intimate relationship, Mary and I."

She looked at him at last, the pocket square balanced on the tips of her fingers in preparation to dab at her face. "You don't have sex? I mean obviously you did _once_…"

"We do only occasionally," he admitted, "and we do love one another—but we haven't ever been in love."

"So what about Ben, then?"

Turnabout was fair play, he supposed. "Ben resulted from a… failure during a one-night stand. He's… two and a half months younger than Brian, if that tells you anything."

She furrowed her brow, then after a moment, when the puzzle piece clicked into place, she looked up to him, slightly mortified. "That would have been… after you… weren't the father. Brian's. Oh, God."

He didn't know what else to say, so said instead, "Look, if you don't want me coming over for dinner tonight… if it's too awkward… I won't."

"No, please do come over. Brian's looking forward. He'll ask about you."

"Okay," he said. He thought about reaching to take her hand, but decided against it. "Are you going to be okay?"

She nodded. "I may not be able to look Mary in the eye ever again, but…"

"I'll just go home, meet you there, unless you want my help cooking?"

She shook her head. "I'd better go."

He wanted desperately to kiss her goodbye, only a quick peck, or at least give her a consoling hug, but she radiated a prickly, don't-touch-me-right-now vibe. "See you in a little while," he said.

She nodded, then ducked into her car.

It would not have mattered a whole lot if Mary had been home that weekend, but he was just as glad to not have to face her, face their son, with what had just occurred, especially with the smile he couldn't seem to get off of his face. He felt terrible for the way Bridget felt upon parting from her at the studio, but he couldn't otherwise suppress how happy, how whole, he felt after what had happened.

He was convinced he could bring her around.

He decided to change out of the suit jacket and into something more suitable for casual dinner with Bridget and her son, khaki pants and an ivory woollen sweater. When he unbuttoned his jacket, he could smell that distinct combination of perfume and of _her_ on his clothing, on him—as much as he liked it, he decided that to keep Brian from asking too many questions, a quick shower was in order… and made a note to drop the suit to the cleaners first thing on Monday.

He thought of Mary as he washed, not for any other reason than the reality of life continuing forward from this moment. He didn't think he could stay in the marriage, not because he'd strayed from their path, but because he never should have embarked on it in the first place. He loved his son, and would always feel affection for the mother of his child, but Bridget was the love of his life, and he needed to convince Bridget that this wasn't just a one-time thing.

He realised as he was on the way out the door that he hadn't checked on what he should contribute to dinner, so he went for a safe option and stopped off to buy another bottle of wine and some dessert before darting off to Notting Hill. He rapped on the door, checking his watch as he did; half-six. He hoped he wasn't late.

She opened the door and he was met with the scent of onion, thyme, and garlic; Bridget had also dressed down in a jumper and jeans, hair drawn back in a ponytail. "Hi," he said, trying to gauge her temperament.

She didn't meet his eye as she stepped back to allow him entrance. "Hi," she said.

"Hi, Mr Darcy!" This more enthusiastic response came from Brian. "I wish Ben could've come."

"Ben's in Birmingham—" He caught himself before saying 'with his mum'—"but I'm sure he would have like to have come too."

"What's in the bag?" Brian asked.

"Some… wine," he said, then glanced to Bridget. "And dessert." He handed the bag to her, and when she looked in, she couldn't hold back a smile.

"Ben and Jerry's," she said, glancing up to Mark with a smirk.

"Peace offering," he said under his breath.

The smile lingered. "Not necessary, but very much appreciated."

He made himself look away—now was not the time or place to talk about the afternoon—and said, "Well, whatever it is that I smell, it's fantastic."

"Chicken soup," she said. "It seemed the right thing for today. Another ten minutes on simmer and it'll be done."

"Perhaps we can sit on the sofa for a bit."

"I'll take this to the kitchen," said Bridget, indicating the carrier bag.

Mark and Brian went to the sofa and as Brian sat next to him, Mark could hear the boy sniffing audibly. "Oh, there's that smell again," he said, looking puzzled.

"Smell? What smell?" asked Mark; how the boy could smell anything over the scent of the soup was a mystery to him.

"I don't know what it is," Brian said, his blue eyes earnestly wide; he was such a perfect melding of his mother and father, in features and manners, it was a bit frightening. "But Mummy smelt of it when she came home. It's sort of like Daddy's shave splash but it's not."

It dawned on him exactly to what Brian was referring: Mark's aftershave, which he had reapplied after shaving again, and which had transferred to his mother just as her perfume had transferred to his own clothing. Mark felt the heat of his embarrassment flood his skin. "Oh," he said.

"Daddy noticed it too," Brian advised him. "When he and Mummy were talking, before he went to see Jennifer. He seemed to think it was funny."

Now Mark felt mortification in every cell in his body. Daniel had guessed too? _Oh God_, he thought. Desperate to change the subject, Mark asked, "So did you have a nice day with your dad?"

Brian nodded, his blondish hair bobbing just as his dad's had at one time. "We went to see a football match. It was _so_ much fun! There was a lot of shouting, we had snacks, and Dad spilt his beer."

Mark burst out laughing. "Sounds like you had a lot of fun," he said.

Brian nodded some more. "Did you have fun today too?"

Mark resisted the urge to answer truthfully. "I had to work," he said.

"So did Mummy, but I don't think she would have liked the football anyway."

"I know," he said. "Your mum and I worked on a project together."

"Oh!" he said. "Maybe that's why she smelt the way she did, then. Like you do. Makes sense."

"Dinner's on," called Bridget from the kitchen. Brian was up and out of the room like a shot. Mark wished he could sink into the ground, but the call of dinner was strong and he was suddenly very hungry, so he followed Brian.

The soup was fantastic; chock full of carrots, celery and chicken, luridly yellow from the turmeric, and exactly what he needed. She had served rice separately (it would get mushy otherwise, she informed), and had poured a glass of wine each for herself and for Mark, and milk for Brian.

"Delicious," Mark said, then looked to her with a smile. "You've come a long way since blue soup."

She laughed; he was pleased to see her mood improving. "I suppose I have," she grinned. "I sort of had to."

"Blue soup, Mummy?"

"Oh, it's a very long story," she said. "I had a dinner party a long time ago… I fancied myself a gourmet cook, but made _such_ a mess of things."

"I recall having a nice time," said Mark, then, thinking of the Portugal palaver, "phone calls from your dad notwithstanding." He turned to Brian. "There's not enough blue food, is there, Brian?"

He giggled. "Nope," he said. "I can think of one, though. Blueberries."

"I suppose that's true," conceded Mark, "though they're really more purple than blue, aren't they?"

They discussed other blue foods with an air of seriousness, coming to the conclusion that there just wasn't much in the way of naturally occurring blue foods. Brian decided that robin's eggs didn't count: "They're only blue on the outside. And too small, anyway—you'd have to eat a mountain of 'em!"

Bridget said, "I read once that blue food's really unappealing on a gut level because most things that are blue are poisonous to humans."

"No comment," said Mark, looking to Bridget with a wink.

"Well, after that dinner party, I was curious," she said, mock-offended.

After a short digestive pause, they moved on to dessert. He'd picked up three pints of Ben and Jerry's—Crème Brûlée for himself, Chocolate Therapy for Bridget ("Because some things never change," he quipped), and—

"Phish Food," said Mark, setting the pint down on the counter.

Brian, wide-eyed, started to giggle. "Has it got actual _fish_ in it?"

"Not real ones," he said, "but I thought you'd like it."

"'Chocolate ice cream with gooey marshmallow, caramel swirls & fudge fish'," read Bridget from the label. "Well, if _you_ don't like it, I'll finish it for you."

Bridget insisted on serving into bowls. "If we take the whole pint, we will eat the whole pint," said Bridget, "and then we will be sick for the whole of the night." The way she said that suggested to him that this had happened with Brian before.

"Yes, Mummy," he said in a suitably chastened tone.

By the time they were through with dinner and dessert, Brian was very nearly falling asleep at the kitchen table… despite the sugar rush. "Poor little guy—must be exhausted from the football and everything else today," she said, getting up to pick Brian up in her arms. "I'll just get him to bed."

Mark was unsure how to broach the subject: they needed very much to talk about what had happened that afternoon. "I'll just…" Mark began.

"Go on to the sitting room," she said with a little nod.

When she returned, her demeanour had darkened a little. She offered him a little smile, which clearly became more and more difficult to maintain, particularly when a tear slid down her cheek. He held out his hand, and she sat beside him. He put his arm around her, pulled her up to him, and silently consoled her. She wasn't sobbing, just breathing long, measured breaths in and out as if to keep control of her emotions.

"I hope this is helping," he said quietly.

"I've fucked _everything_ up for you," she said.

"No, you haven't," he said. "Quite the opposite." He pressed his cheek against the top of her head.

Her voice was soft, but the sarcasm was heavy. She rested back against him. "Yeah, I suppose Mary'll be thrilled when she finds out."

"It won't be easy, but I think the path forward is clear." He closed his eyes, took in a deep breath. "I realise I can't stay with Mary."

She sat up, turned to look at him. She was clearly distraught; the good work of the consoling hug had been undone. "Mark, you can't destroy your family over just one shag."

"It isn't _just_ that," he said, "and I think you know it. I'd be destroying nothing, no more than you and Daniel parting ways has destroyed Brian. I thought this arrangement with Mary would be enough, but it's not, Bridget. It's not. I was fooling myself to think it would."

She looked down, then smiled a little, then began to chuckle. "Sorry," she said. "I was just remembering… ridiculous but charming, with the terms and renewals." Her voice was a bit hysterical; he hadn't the slightest what she meant until she went on. "You know, the five-year term, with an option to renew after four for three more years…"

It slowly sunk in, but he realised she was referring to when he had proposed to her what felt a hundred years ago. He smiled, took her hand with both of his, and squeezed gently. "Perhaps I should have taken that tack with Mary. The term would be expiring. Or expired."

"But with me…"

He remembered that too: in a fit of romantic fever on Valentine's Day, he had extended the offer to life with a minimum of twenty-five years. "I hadn't meant to make it sound like a prison term," he said sheepishly.

She laughed a little. "I never heard it that way at all." She placed her free hand atop his, looked intently at their piled-up hands. "What a mess. If I'd only just said yes." She looked up. "I suppose I can't blame you for not asking again, after what I put you through."

"I didn't think you'd accept," he said, thinking back to all of those attempts to have a baby, then the offer to adopt Daniel's, the boy who was now his own son's best friend; how he'd wanted so much to marry her first, but the thought that she would refuse him, or refuse to give him an answer again…. "It was easier just not to do it. To go with the status quo."

She looked down again. "I suppose that's fair." She stroked the back of his hand, then pulled hers free, shifted slightly, and settled in beside him again, pulling his arm around her again, then sliding her own arm around him at his waist.

With his cheek pressed against her again, he turned his head to plant a kiss on the crown of her head, then stroked her hair as she lazily arced her hand up and down along his side. It felt so good to have her in his arms again; it seemed that she was warming to the idea, and he allowed himself to think of a possible future with her in it. He could picture them living in this house, or one very like it, with their boys living together as brothers (step-brothers, technically) and Daniel next door; he chuckled a little thinking how incredibly sitcom-ish it seemed.

"What's funny?" she asked sleepily.

He hesitated to answer; after all, it seemed a bit much to be thinking about the future already, and all the pressures that moving forward entailed; he knew he still loved her, but it had only been one shag, after all, and her own feelings were unclear. But then he also thought of all of the times he hesitated to propose, and what he would have gained if he had just taken the difficult route and done so. "I was just thinking of the boys, that's all."

"Hmm?"

"Having an… extended family, that's all."

She drew back again, trying earnestly to read his features for an explanation. He then explained about what he had just been thinking, half-expecting her to push him away, to tell him to leave, but she did no such thing. In fact, she smiled too.

"I think Brian would be over the moon," she said.

"You, however, would hate it," he teased.

"Hmm, yes," she said with a smile. "Man in my bed every night. Ugh."

He thought he might just be able to risk trying to kiss her again. It turned out to be another risk worth taking, as she welcomed the kiss with fervour, making soft little sounds of pleasure as the kiss escalated, as she curled her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, as she arched to press herself against him. He slipped his hand up and under her jumper; she gasped as his fingers traced along the edge of her bra.

"Come on," she said, pulling back, standing up. He thought briefly that she was going to send him on his way, but she smiled. "It would not do for Brian to get up and stumble onto this. He wouldn't understand."

Mark understood, though, and he nodded.

He followed her up to her room; she closed and locked the door behind her, then, switching on the bedside lamp, indicated he should sit next to her on the bed. "If he knocks and needs something," she said. "I'll have to answer it."

"I understand," he said. Then, as an afterthought: "This room doesn't… share a wall with Daniel's master suite, does it?"

She laughed out loud. "No. The loos share a wall. We made sure." She placed her hand on his face, cradling tenderly, as her expression went serious again. Wistful. "I just want you to know," she began quietly, "that I love you. I always have. And that this isn't just… desperate old Bridget Singleton jumping into bed with you because you're familiar and safe and a known quantity…"

It was Mark's turn to feel unexpectedly emotional, and he dove forward to kiss her before nuzzling into her ear to tell her that he loved her too, that he always had, and always would. "And as soon as possible," he said, "the lifetime offer will be back on the table."

This time their intimacy was as slow and deliberate as the romp in her office had been quick and passionate. He took great pleasure in every moment of their lovemaking; divesting her of the jumper then the bra, jeans then pants; his hands roamed over her skin and elicited moans with every caress. To feel her hands sweeping all over his body was almost more than he could take; having her once was insufficient, and thankfully she seemed to feel the same way.

After the last round—the last that night, anyway, as he was too spent for another go—he realised that he should not stay the night. It would raise too many questions for Brian in the morning, and he had no idea when Mary and Ben were due home on Sunday.

Bridget was already drifting to sleep, but had a gorgeous half-smile playing on her lips. "Darling," he said, tracing her brow with the tip of his finger, "I think I'd better go home."

She nodded. "Four times," she said drowsily. "I haven't done that in years."

"Five," he corrected. "If you're counting the entire day."

She laughed and threw his arms around his neck, kissing him, threatening to start everything up again… but then stopped. "It'll be nice when you can stay," she said.

He nodded. As much as he dreaded the conversation with Mary, he knew it would need to happen as soon as possible after she was home with Ben. Not that he was expecting histrionics or thrown vases… but even ending a business relationship was hard, too.

He rose and dressed (and so did she, in case Brian awakened to see her showing him to the door); he resisted the urge to touch her as they descended, as they said good night, refrained from kissing her goodbye or pulling her snug against him.

"Give me a call tomorrow?" she said. Her tone was light, but he knew she meant after Mary's return.

He nodded. "I'll be sure to," he said.

With that, he turned and left, risking one look back to wave, to see her waving back. He smiled.

His house, his bed, seemed too empty that night—despite the fact that he had been sleeping with (or rather sharing a bed with) someone for the past five years. Love made all the difference in the world, he realised. He wished he'd figured that out a hell of a lot sooner.

_Sunday, 16 November_

The sound of the key in the door gave Mark a start.

He'd had no precise idea when Mary and Ben would be home on Sunday, though he reasoned it would be in time for dinner, to get Ben in bed in time for school the next morning. However, the uncertainty had left him on tenterhooks; every loud or unexpected sound revved up his heart rate.

At three in the afternoon, though, there was no mistaking the sound of the key, or the beeping of the alarm being disengaged. He kept himself from racing to greet them. Instead, he pushed away from his desk, from his portable computer—he had attempted to work, or at least to give off the illusion of work, though he'd gotten nowhere—stood, and walked to the foyer.

Mary was crouched down to help Ben out of his coat. Both mother and son looked very sombre, which puzzled him. Ben turned, saw his dad, and offered a smile. "Hi, Dad."

"Hi," Mark said.

Mary turned to smile, too, though hers was quite stiff and unconvincing. "Hello, Mark."

"Did you have a nice visit?" Mark asked.

She looked thoughtful, then nodded. "Enlightening. And you? How was working yesterday?"

"Productive," he said. He then took in a deep breath. No time like the present. "Look, I—"

"Ben," said Mary unexpectedly, "do you mind playing in your room for a bit? Maybe make sure your trains are running smoothly? Your father and I have some things to discuss."

Ben nodded then went up the stairs. Mark could only stare mutely as she slipped out of her own coat. This anticipation on her part completely baffled him.

"I'll worry about the overnight bags in a bit," she said quietly, more to herself than anything. Then she looked at Mark. "You don't mind, do you?"

"Uh, no," he said. "In my office?"

"In the study, if you don't mind."

In silence they proceeded to the study. To his surprise, she shut the door behind them, turned, and then met his eyes. She looked melancholy. "I hate to spring this on you the moment we're in the door, but it's best to get this out in the open… and in the end I don't think this will really come as much a surprise to you."

He found it hard to summon his voice, a mean feat for a man who orated on a regular basis. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"I've been thinking a lot lately, Mark. Since we've been back. Especially since Ben has gone to school." She paused. "It's not just that we're back to England. That we're on home turf again. Things are different."

His mind whirled trying to think of what it was she could be telling him. Surely she had not reconnected with a man from her own past—that would have been too odd for words. "How are things different?" he asked cautiously.

Her expression somehow remained melancholy even as she offered a knowing smile, but said in a surprisingly gentle, almost weary voice, "I'm not completely oblivious, you know."

Mark felt an icy vine wend its way through this body, the chill of certainty that somehow, Mary already knew what had happened. Even though he knew it was impossible. "Oblivious?" he echoed stupidly.

"I never realised how unhappy you really were," she said, matter-of-factly. He opened his mouth to protest but she waved her hand to pre-empt it. "I don't mean to say that I think I was the cause of your unhappiness, and certainly Ben wasn't, because I don't doubt for a moment that you love our son, but… I assumed before that it was just the way you were. But I think I know differently now." She paused; he wondered what was coming next. "I've seen the way your eyes follow her around a room; how your face lights up when you talk with her; but I also see the longing and the regret that her boy wasn't yours." She cleared her throat, took in a breath. "I saw the photos, Mark. I didn't mean to, and I'm sorry, but I was looking for something else and there they were, a huge box of photos of the two of you. I thought I was looking at a stranger. You were so different when you were with her." She laughed lightly. "I couldn't even hate her, not that I felt jealous—I was maybe protective of Ben, but not jealous—because she obviously wasn't doing anything overtly to try to… I don't know, _seduce_ you away, as ridiculous as that sounds. And on top of that she was also so, _so_ kind to me when I drank too much at the Bonfire Night party… and I was so sorry. Sorry to have been such an obstacle to your happiness with her."

"Mary—" he began.

"I needed a second opinion, so… I went to see my father. Eminently practical. Laid out the case before him, and we were of one mind." She took in another deep breath. "I can't make you stay in our situation, Mark. It'd be not only illogical, but cruel. I have never fooled myself into thinking we would some day fall into the sort of romantic love they show in films and on the television. I don't believe in that sort of thing—at least, I don't believe in it for me. Obviously… it does exist."

Mark did not know what to say. He had thought she had been extra-introspective over the last month and a half, but never in his wildest dreams had he considered she was building a case in her mind to gently break it to him that she wanted to divorce him for his own good.

"Mark?" she prompted tenderly. "Are you too shocked to speak after all that… or do you have anything you want to add to this discussion?"

He considered his words, and instead blurted out, "Yesterday we slept together. Accidentally." He wanted to punch himself in the face: _five times, accidentally?_ He suppressed the voice in his head that added, _Sort of thing that could happen to anyone._ It would not do to laugh—but even at this juncture he was thinking of Bridget. "I meant it wasn't planned," he said.

Mary did not even bat an eyelash. She wasn't sad, wasn't shocked. Resigned, but not reluctantly so. "I'm not at all surprised. Honestly—it only seemed to be a matter of time."

Mary was taking this exceptionally well, and he felt very generous towards her. Maybe a little sad on her behalf, too, that she'd dismissed the idea outright that she was not destined for the sort of love he had for Bridget. He held out his arms to offer a hug, which she accepted. He wanted very much to stay close—not just because she was Ben's mum, but because he cared about her and didn't want her to get lonely, and he suspected she might resign herself to loneliness, otherwise.

"If it makes you feel better to throw a pillow at me…" he joked as they drew apart.

She laughed a little, combing her fingers back through her slightly mussed hair, then, in an instant, went all business again. "We should probably wait to tell Ben until we have more of the details hammered out. I mean, I don't want him to think we're going to put him out on the street like a mongrel."

He smiled. "I agree." When all was said and done, Ben was going to benefit greatly: a big, warm, extended family… and best of all, a stepbrother.

They briefly discussed logistics—Mary accepted readily the notion that he might want to live in the semi-detached, and the house could be sold and another could be purchased closer to Notting Hill… "Or you could just stay here," he said. "Notting Hill and Mayfair really aren't that far apart."

"We'll see," she said. "Hm. I wonder if there's room for you to have an office there, too. Her portion of the semi-detached isn't as large as this house…"

"We'll see," he echoed. "Maybe I'll just keep it here."

She smiled a little, but regarded him with scrutiny. "Not much is going to change, is it?" she asked. "Except your address. And a few other things of importance."

He chuckled. "No. Not really." He cleared his throat. "I—_we_—will always be there for you."

She offered another strangely uncharacteristic half-smile. "Somehow, I knew you would say that." The smile transformed, got wider. "And I expect you would like to make a phone call?"

He felt his skin warm with his embarrassment. "Yes, that would be nice."

She patted his shoulder. "I'll go see how Ben's getting on. I'll ask him what he wants for dinner—I hadn't really thought ahead."

Mark nodded, waited for her to leave the room and close the door behind herself, then took his mobile from his pocket.

She answered right away, forgoing all preamble and saying, "So how did it go?"

He started to chuckle. "You are never going to believe this."


	5. Chapter 5

**Mr & Mrs Darcy**

By S. Faith, © 2013

Words: 30,042

Rating: M / R

Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 5.**

_The following week_

With little fuss, Mark and Mary began divorce proceedings; what had begun quietly in a registrar's office would end quietly in a barrister's. They agreed they would keep everything relatively low-key, even though there was no reason to keep it especially secret.

There was still one conversation he wanted to have, and that was with Daniel. He thought about ringing Daniel up, but didn't exactly know what to say… and he felt he owed Jennifer an apology, as well, for intimating she was a potential home-wrecker.

As Mark ducked out for a lunch pondering the situation a few days later, he spied Daniel having lunch at the very same bistro at which he'd been before, at the very same table, and with him again was Jennifer. Mark took it to be a sign, and he diverted to the bistro.

Daniel looked up and scowled. "Serious déjà vu here," he said.

"No, it's all right," Mark said. "I'm just here to apologise for what must have seemed a mad outburst… especially to you, Jennifer. Bridget explained everything to me."

Daniel grinned. "Ah." He looked to Jennifer, who smiled and nodded. "Well, we've only just arrived. Why don't you join us?"

So Mark did join them, learning that unlike many of Daniel's other girlfriends, Jennifer was a teacher, handling children older than Brian and Ben. He also found he liked her very much. She was as sharp as a tack and obviously bright—if the playful verbal parrying was any indication—and by no means a shrinking flower. In fact, she was not afraid to scold Daniel for wanting a second glass of wine with lunch. She would not back down, and he relented, teasing, "You sound like Mark."

Mark could see why Bridget would like her—and he too hoped Jennifer would stick around.

_Early December_

"Mark. That was an… interesting programme."

The first Wednesday in December brought the broadcast of the episode of 'Novel Sensations' on which he was the guest. He had been reluctant to discuss his renewed relationship with Bridget until divorce proceedings were well underway, especially his parents, but given the commentary and feedback he had gotten so far from all who had seen the episode, it seemed that the cat was out of the bag: there was no hiding the comfort, the familiarity, the chemistry. Everyone asked if they had—with a wink—worked many long nights together.

From the tone of his mother's voice, she sensed the same.

"I'm glad you enjoyed it," he said rather neutrally, then decided to forge on: "The subject matter is one very close to my heart—"

"I'd be very pleased to hear you were back with Bridget," she interrupted sternly, "except for the fact you're married with a child." His mother had always liked Mary well enough—far more than she'd liked Mark's first wife—but had always liked Bridget best for her son.

He could feel her penetratingly inquisitive gaze over their telephone connection. "I hadn't wanted to say anything until we had more of the details finalised, but I guess there's no reason to hold back now—though the boys haven't been told yet."

"Details on…?" she prompted.

"Mary and I have decided to split. Things won't be final until the spring but… we have begun divorce proceedings." Before she could say anything more about it, he added, "It was Mary's idea… but I had been wanting it myself. I couldn't deny I still loved Bridget."

"If this is the case, then… I can be pleased unreservedly."

He smiled, feeling relieved; he hadn't realised how much he'd wanted her approval until he had it. "I'm glad to hear it."

"Give her my love, won't you?" Elaine said, surprising him.

"I surely will," he said, sooner rather than later; he had plans to meet her for dinner that evening; Mary was looking after Ben and Daniel had Brian, so the night was open ended.

He said his goodbyes then slipped down to the kitchen, to where Mary was making dinner, to say goodbye to her and to Ben for the night; he gave his son a hug and a kiss and told him he'd might be late so they'd just see each other in the morning.

"Where are you going, Dad?" Ben asked. "Mum and me saw you on the telly today with Bridget. Are you gonna see her and Brian?"

He glanced to Mary, who shook her head and shrugged a little, suggesting she had no idea where this question was coming from. "'Mum and I'," he corrected, "and yes, I will be seeing—" It still felt weird to call her by her name to his child. "—Bridget for dinner."

"Are you having a party from being on the telly?"

"Sort of, yes."

Ben drew his brows together. "By yourselves?"

"Yes."

"Oh," he said. "Huh."

"What is it?" Mark pressed.

Ben looked very earnest. "Will we have our own party soon, you and Mum and me?"

"Sure." He ran his hand over Ben's hair, then looked to Mary. Without words they agreed: they had to tell Ben what was happening—he could tell Bridget to tell her son. He gestured towards the sofa in the attached sitting room. "Let's have a little talk, okay?"

Ben nodded, followed his mother and father, and then sat facing the both of them. Mark spoke first.

"Ben, you know that I love you."

Ben smiled, though still seemed a little unsure what was going on. "Love you too, Dad."

"And you know I love you too." This from Mary as she patted his knee.

"Uh-huh."

He knew Mary disapproved of him saying 'uh-huh' but she let it slide anyway. "And nothing that ever happens will change that, right? Even if we're not always all together?"

"I know." Ben looked from his mum to his dad, quirking up the corner of his mouth thoughtfully. "Are you going to be a divorce?"

They exchanged another glance. "What would make you ask that?" Mark asked.

"Tim in school said his mum and dad aren't going to live together anymore 'cause she's a divorce." His big brown eyes blinked slowly. "Do I have to live with someone else?"

"Absolutely not," said Mark, taking his hand. "You will either be living with Mum, here or in a new place… or with me." He paused. "And with Bridget and Brian."

His eyes got wide. "With Brian?"

Mark smiled. Of course he would focus on that.

Mary asked, "Would you like to have Brian as your stepbrother?"

He nodded earnestly… but he stopped, then his smile faded. "But I'll still have you as my mum?"

Mary uttered a little laugh that indicated she was a bit choked up. "Benedict, I will always be your mum, and you will always by my son."

"Oh, good."

"You'll be surrounded by people who love you wherever you are," Mary said. Mark nodded.

"Oh," he said. He looked pensive again. "So why are you going to live with Bridget and Brian?"

He pursed his lips, looked to Mary, then said, "Your mum and I still love you, and we still care about each other, but…" He faltered, not knowing quite how to phrase it in a way that Ben would understand but delicate enough to not inadvertently hurt Mary in any way, even though they'd never had the same sort of relationship—

"Your dad wants to marry Bridget."

Mary's contribution took him by surprise.

"Oh!" said Ben. "Well, that's cool, then."

Mark laughed unexpectedly, relieved at Ben's stamp of approval. "I'm glad you think so," said Mark. He leaned forward and kissed him on the top of the head. "I have to go, Ben, but I'll see you in the morning, all right?"

"Okay," said Ben.

When he got into the car for the short ride over the pick up Bridget for dinner, he dialled her with the hands-free from the car to let her know he was on the way. "Okay," she said, sounding amused. "I'll just need to take Brian over to Daniel." Then she chuckled. "Adorable, by the way."

"What is?"

"Your son just rang up mine."

Mark's brows rose; Ben was not prone to making telephone calls, and wondered if he might be a bit excited about the night's news. "Ah," Mark said. "I was going to tell you that we told Ben this evening about the divorce so that you could tell Brian, but I bet Ben's beaten you to the punch. He's… looking forward to having a stepbrother."

"Oh," she said, which wasn't much, but the way she said it made him wonder if it hadn't upset her.

"I hope that's okay," he said. "I never thought Ben would want to ring up Brian, or else I would have told Mary—"

"It's all right, Mark," she said.

"I'm almost there," he said. "We'll talk more."

"Okay. Bye."

He disconnected, indicated, and turned down her street, fortuitously finding a spot on the kerb. When he arrived to Bridget's, Brian was still on the telephone, grinning from ear to ear. "Guess what, Ben? Your dad's here." Pause. "Ben says 'hi', Mr Darcy."

"Hi, Ben," he called.

"Brian, time to go to your dad's," Bridget said. "Time to say bye to Ben."

He did so, then placed the phone back on its cradle. He was still grinning.

"So are you ready to head over?"

"Uh-huh," said Brian.

"Well, then. Let's get."

They walked back towards the door connecting the sitting room to Daniel's; as Bridget knocked then opened the door, as Daniel and Jennifer waved hello, Brian asked, "So, Mr Darcy, when are you coming to live here and marry Mum?"

Mark stopped dead in his tracks; Daniel, Jennifer, and especially Bridget all stared at him. He was at a loss for words, and felt his skin flare with the heat of his embarrassment. Then Bridget began to chuckle, asking Brian, "Is that what Ben said was happening?"

"Uh-huh," said Brian. Daniel and Jennifer were also attempting to stifle laughter.

"That is _not_ what I told Ben," Mark said.

Bridget smiled. "Well. We did talk about drawing up contracts."

Mark felt a slight panic; Bridget had never asked outright about moving in—he had just assumed it would be the most logical place—and he felt suddenly guilty that he hadn't talked to Daniel about the situation either. "You'd be all right with that, wouldn't you?" he asked Daniel. "If I came and lived here?"

Daniel's features went unreadable. "Can we speak in private for a moment?"

"Certainly."

Together they went into the kitchen, which didn't have a door per se, but was far enough away to provide some privacy. Daniel folded his arms over his chest. "So you want to live here, with Bridget. In our house."

"I do. Yes."

"Presumably with your son, at least part of the time."

It was another aspect he had failed to fully consider, though he wasn't sure why Daniel seemed so offended by the concept. "Well, Mary and I will share custody, but yes."

Daniel said nothing, at least until the façade of sternness began to crack and Daniel began to laugh aloud. "I suppose the room currently storing everything she hasn't yet unpacked can be cleared out for Ben… as for your office, well, I suppose you and Bridget will have to make do with sharing."

Mark's relief was immense. "So this is okay?"

"More than okay," he said. "Plus, another built-in child-minder." The smile faded, and he looked serious again. "Look, I'm fully aware that but for my presence you and Bridge would have gotten back together a lot sooner, anyway. She told me about your willingness to adopt Brian, and while I never would've signed him away, it says a lot about you that you would have. So I'm sorry for that. For being the roadblock. And for that other thing with your wife—the first one, I mean." He grinned then held out his hand.

It felt good to leave the past in the past at long last, and with a smile of his own, Mark accepted the handshake.

Daniel then joked, "Third time's a charm, perhaps?"

"It had better be," he said, "because it'll be the last time."

They returned to where Bridget and Jennifer waited with Brian; the boy was oblivious to their nervous anticipation, which resolved into smiles when they looked into the men's faces. "All settled, then?" asked Bridget.

Daniel nodded. "I've deigned to allow him to live here, if that's what you really want." This he said with a wink.

"How very noble of you," Bridget said drolly, then held out her hand towards Mark. "After all of that suspense, I'm hungry. Let's go and eat."

She gave Brian a kiss goodbye, and with that the two of them exited through the pass-through door, then through the front door of Bridget's place. As they walked down to his car hand in hand, Bridget was beaming a smile. "Penny for your thoughts," he asked, even though he had a good idea what was on her mind.

He would be proven wrong.

"I was just thinking about how our potential future arrangement is shaping up," she said. "You, me, Ben, Brian, Daniel, and—God willing and no stupid moves on Daniel's part—Jennifer. When you think about it, it's all very… commune-esque."

His brows lifted.

"Very lefty-liberal, isn't it?" she added, turning to face him as they reached the car. "Maybe Mary can just take up in the spare bedroom at Daniel's and the circle would be complete."

At this he had to chuckle. "I suppose at least you're not consigning her to be the mad ex-wife in the attic."

"Come on," she said, threading her arms around his neck. "I actually _like_ Mary." She then kissed him, drawing back to add with a wink, "Besides. We don't even have an attic, anyway."

_Mid-December_

The school term ended in the third week of December, which made for a very small window of opportunity for Mark to move house before Christmas. With professional help in the packing and the moving, though, they were able to make it work. Having Lynn around to help watch over the boys made it much easier to complete, particularly as Bridget was feeling under the weather and couldn't tend to them as well as she ordinarily would have.

Not that the boys were difficult to watch over. For five-year-olds, they were pretty well behaved; Mark could see a dynamic between them that very much mirrored his friendship with Daniel, even his relationship with Bridget: one outspoken and daring, the other more thoughtful and reserved. It was this balance, in its own way, that teased out a playfulness in Ben and helped to keep Brian's mischievousness in check.

When Mark would watch the boys play, he would think back to the trials and tribulations of trying to have a baby with Bridget. How frustrating it had been, and the harder they'd tried, the more frustrating it had become. They now had an embarrassment of riches in the way of children; it only took a few days of living with Bridget for Mark to start thinking of Brian as his son, too.

As the holidays got ever nearer and Bridget felt no better, she joked over her unbuttered toast and weak tea for breakfast, "Everything's going so well, surely I've contracted something fatal."

"That isn't funny," Mark said sternly. "I'm getting you in to see a doctor before Christmas makes it impossible to do so."

She sighed and acquiesced. "You do know I'm kidding, right?"

He didn't smile—he was too uneasy to smile, because obstacles always seemed to pop up to thwart their happiness—but he reached across the table and took her hand in his. "I know. Better safe than sorry."

He was able to get her into a private physician within the day, an old friend that had helped Jude out in a pinch once upon a time; he felt it was too urgent a matter to wait for an appointment with her usual GP. Too worried, and to Bridget's irritation, he went into the surgery with her; the doctor asked all manner of questions about the symptoms she had been experienced, which she answered (and which he corrected when she would fib).

"And the last time you…" Dr Stark cleared his throat, glancing for a moment towards Mark. "…had your period?"

Mark felt his skin flush with his embarrassment.

"Hmm," she said. "Maybe back in October? It's gone pretty irregular the last few years. Few months on, few months off."

Dr Stark made notations in his computer. "Okay," he said. "Let's just take a little blood to test. We'll have results tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Mark said, scowling. "We have to spend the evening waiting on tenterhooks?"

"Sorry, that's the best turnaround I've got. I know you're worried, my friend, but I really don't think it's anything to worry about."

Mark jumped on these words. "So you _do_ have an idea what might be going on?"

He nodded. He told them. And, a day later, Dr Stark was proven correct.

"I don't understand how this could have happened," Bridget said, setting down the phone, shock draining her face of all colour.

"I could show you, if you've forgotten since last night," Mark said with a smile. He tried hard not to laugh, because it was only humorous in light of his previous thoughts. When they were trying so desperately hard, it was elusive, and when they weren't trying at all…

"Mark," she said, still staring at the inert telephone. "It's not funny."

"I know, I know," he said, taking her hand. He went immediately sombre. "You aren't unhappy, I hope."

She looked up to him at last, and that's when the smile spread across her face. "Of course I'm _happy_," she said, placing her other hand tenderly against his cheek. "Just totally not expecting to be pregnant at my age."

"At your age. As if you were Methuselah. Pfft." He took her into his arms, nuzzled into the hair near her ear and whispered, "The boys will be thrilled when they come back from Mary's."

"As thrilled as you are?" she asked, slipping her arms around his waist, raking her nails down the cotton of his shirt.

"No one could be as thrilled as I am," he murmured, his hands rounding her bottom, squeezing gently. "Particularly as I am perfectly free to show you _how_ thrilled I am."

"Mmm," she purred, then kissed his cheek. "I think I like this multiple parent arrangement," she added, then began to kiss him in earnest.

_The end._


End file.
